Of Roosters and Spiders
by RoanokeWilde
Summary: (Trigger Warning: PTSD) Following the events of FFH, Peter Parker and Aunt May decide to stay at the Barton Farm while things cool off and they figure out how to move forward now that the world-and all of Spiderman's enemies-know that he is also Peter Parker. Chaos and angst ensue as Peter learns how to care for chickens, ride horses, fish, and find peace.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: I do not own the MCU or any of its associated characters/concepts, including the characters and some of the events featured in this story.**

* * *

_**After the End of FFH.**_

_**Before the Mid-Credits Scene.**_

Peter stretched with everything he had, trying desperately to force his left hand up and under his leg to grasp the target.

Things weren't going so hot.

"Come on, come on," he hissed, feeling the burn in his hamstrings and lower back, courtesy of the extremely inconvenient position he found himself in. He steeled himself, took in as deep of a breath as his situation allowed, and then made one last, desperate lunge to get his hand to where it needed to be.

For a second, it almost seemed like he had made it—

But his body proved incapable of handling the stress any longer, and he collapsed, breath whooshing out, hand crushed under his own body weight, pride wounded beyond words.

Ned burst out laughing from Peter's bed, seeming to forget that had had gone out on the second round and that this was technically Peter's—what, tenth?

"Duuude. I had no idea Spiderman would be so bad at Twister!"

Peter sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees, rotating his wrist to ease out the throbbing. He tried to frown at Ned, but even he had to admit in his shame that it was pretty funny. He could scale walls with just his hands and feet, throw cars a good twelve feet like it was nothing, and swing hundreds of feet in the air on pseudo-spider's web. But rope him into a game of Twister and something—be it his (ripped) muscles or just a sad lack of true flexibility—and he would fall within the first ten spins.

They'd tried it about four times just tonight.

Peter turned to MJ, who was perched on his desk chair, spinner in hand, looking profoundly bored with the whole ordeal.

He grinned at her.

"Hey, it wasn't that bad."

Ned snickered behind him again, but MJ just shook her head sorrowfully.

"Both of you are wimps."

Peter blinked at her and then swung his head back around to get Ned's take on the matter. His friend's eyebrows were drawn together, and he shrugged in total perplexion at his Peter's querying gaze.

Peter gave up and stood. He stretched his arms above his head with an unexpected yawn and tried his best not to let his friends see how the action got caught in his lower back—he'd been straining more than he let on to maintain that pose earlier.

He should have known MJ would have picked up on it, though. She let out a sardonic laugh.

"Yeah, OK, pretty boy. My turn to show you how it's done."

Peter's mind got stuck for a moment on the 'pretty boy' part, but when he realized she was serious, he accepted the thrusted spinner with raised eyebrows.

"Wait, really? I've never seen you play a game like this. Are you sure…are you sure…"

Her look made him shut his mouth. He swallowed and tried again, Ned looking on in a kind of morbid fascination.

"I mean, aren't you too tall for this game? It can be really hard to get into some of those positions, and—"

MJ held up a hand, consternation on her face.

"'More of your conversation would infect my brain,'" she said, such authority in her voice that Peter couldn't help but get the impression that she was quoting something. He blinked.

"Uh…"

"'Coriolanus', Act Two, Scene One. Shakespeare."

Peter looked once more at Ned for help, but Ned had donned a familiar awestruck expression that told the whole story. He never failed to be amazed at the things that came out of MJ's mouth.

_Although I guess it's the same way with me_, Peter thought.

Resigning himself to a quiet and humbled state for the next few minutes, Peter straddled the chair and faced MJ, who was standing looking at him with a very intense, very intimidating expression on her face.

Peter flicked the spinner, deciding that it was pretty warm in here and that the sound of the little plastic hand rumbling around and around on the cardboard circle was far too loud and he should fix that somehow—

He cleared his throat.

"Right foot yellow."

MJ's foot went down on the concerned circle like she was a tyrant laying down the law. And as far as Peter was concerned at this moment in time, that was exactly what she was.

She lasted nearly fifty spins before calmly and with great control she simply decided to stop playing. She unfolded herself and stood up in front of her audience of two, and Peter struggled to keep himself from staring too creepily because jeez she looked like the most graceful, most beautiful girl he had ever seen and the way her hair had slipped from her ponytail and had drifted lazily across one side of her face was—

"You two dweebs get the picture?" she asked, trademark smirk in place.

Ned nodded in wholehearted agreement. Peter forced his expression to drop a few degrees on the awe-spectrum and swallowed. Again.

"Yeah. You did…great, MJ."

_Wow, he actually controlled his voice pretty well maybe she didn't notice that he was staring or that—_

Surprisingly, MJ was the one who broke eye contact first. She turned her eyes away quickly, seeming vulnerable in a way he had rarely seen.

"Thanks. I used to take gymnastics when I was little."

Ned snorted.

"I'm usually not one to, like, be impressed by a child's game—"

Peter shot Ned a look. They both knew better than that.

"—But I just wanna say that you are officially the Twister champion now."

Peter laughed, and, to his surprise, so did MJ.

"Both of you are living a pretty lame life if you get this excited over a game of Twister."

Peter shrugged and grinned at Ned. As long as he had these two by his side, he found that he really didn't care if his life was that lame. A night in, contorting himself and pulling muscles trying to prove his flexibility prowess, was infinitely better, he decided, than a night out getting beat up by bad guys.

* * *

MJ left not long after the last Twister game.

May came in to tell them that it was almost nine o' clock and they better get to sleep because there was school tomorrow.

_For once, it seemed, that had been one of the furthest things from Peter's mind tonight_.

Peter offered to see MJ out, and they had stood awkwardly on the stop for a minute, tripping over goodbyes and "see you laters" until finally MJ had just rolled her eyes and leaned forward and given him a light kiss.

On the mouth.

Again.

Peter had almost begun to believe that what had happened on the bridge in London had never really happened at all, that maybe it had been the aftereffects of…of…the illusions and stuff.

But now that it happened again? Peter smiled like an idiot the whole time he walked back to his room, where Ned was waiting with Peter's mask pulled taut over his head.

"How do I look?" he asked.

Peter looked at Ned and laughed, his fingers still a little bit trembly, his heart still beating a little fast, his face still feeling like it was on fire in the best way possible.

In fact, he was so jittery that he didn't even mind that he was looking at his mask, still smoky-gray here and there and with a few unofficial ventilation slits sliced into various places.

"Great, Ned," he muttered hoarsely, sprawling out on the rumpled Twister mat, trying not to think about how MJ had just been touching the thing and maybe if he tried hard enough he could still smell a little bit of her light perfume in the room—

Ned ripped the mask off and leaned down excitedly to look at him. His eyes were bright with mischief and no small amount of raw curiosity.

"Did you…?"

Peter closed his eyes, grin returning. Ned sighed happily, as if his silence were the best answer he could have ever hoped for (and maybe it was).

"You two are seriously the most romantic couple ever."

Peter laughed and opened his eyes again.

"Seriously, Ned? We spend most of our time trying not to be so awkward that we burst into flames…well, at least I do. I don't think that's the right definition of 'romantic.'"

Ned got that wise look he had started wearing more and more on matters like this since they had gone to Europe.

"Come on, Peter. You know it is. And when people love each other as much as you do, then your passion will always drown out the embarrassment. Plus, _kissing_ probably—"

"Ned!"

His friend threw up his hands in conciliation and flopped backwards onto the bed.

"Just saying. Spiderman could probably have all the ladies he wants, but you chose MJ, and I think that's adorable."

Peter's smile faded just a little bit, and he groaned. He folded his hand over his stomach and stared up at his familiar ceiling in all its peeling glory.

"Please don't ever use the word 'adorable' again…"

Peter heard the creak of the mattress as his friend sat up again, and he could feel his gaze as he looked back down on him. Peter knew what was coming next.

"So, why_ aren't_ you being Spiderman anymore?"

Peter didn't really want to look at Ned while he answered. In fact, he didn't really want to answer at all.

"I am still being Spiderman," he said, more defensively than he had intended. He wasn't lying, of course, but he wasn't completely telling the truth, either.

"Really? Then your guy-in-the-chair hasn't gotten a single call since we've been back from Europe. You know that's, like, an entire two weeks, right?"

Peter knew Ned didn't really feel that offended by that fact, but he felt a prick of guilt nevertheless, and he sat up so he could actually face his friend.

"I only go out once a week now, anyway," he admitted. "Just to clean up a few robberies or something. Enough so that people see me and I can do some good—check out the old haunts and stuff—but not enough that I'm getting beat up three nights a week and can't keep my eyes open during Mrs. Carrie's class in the morning."

Peter paused, bit his lip. The whole thing had kind of spilled out before he could stop it, and, now, looking at Ned's concerned face, he regretted saying anything about being beat up—or about Mrs. Carrie's class. They both hated English class, truly.

After a moment, Ned sighed and picked the Spiderman mask back up. He fingered it on his lap before looking back at Peter.

"Do you still think about Mysterio sometimes?"

Peter closed his eyes, and immediately a flood of snapshot images shuddered across the surface of his eyelids. He saw again the burning city, the zombie Iron Man clawing the dirt up as he rose from the grave of Anthony Howard Stark, the still face of Quentin Beck pressed against the glass-littered ground.

And, unbidden, he saw, too, the battlefield in New York, the dying and the burning across the blackened earth, the funeral at Tony's cabin—

Peter snapped his eyes open, aware that it had been a little too long since Ned had asked the question.

"Yeah, I do. Sometimes."

There was a pause. Ned knew he had more to say, and like the aggravatingly amazing friend he was, he waited to hear it.

"Just like before Europe," he began slowly. "I just want a break from being the superhero, you know? After…after everybody came back and I found out that May had been left behind, I just needed to be Peter for a while. Not Spiderman."

Ned nodded in encouragement and set aside the mask once more, though his fingers lingered on it for a second, as if he were more hesitant to let Spiderman take a breather than he cared to admit. How could Peter blame him? Spiderman was cool. He was an excitement for Ned, a novelty and something to wonder at because, hey, it was his best friend in that suit, fighting crime and doing cool flips and stuff.

But Ned never saw the bruises or the cuts, the memories of being in space and trying give himself first aid after a knife gashed his arm or his leg or his stomach. And Peter didn't want him to have to. That was the ugly side of Spiderman.

Was it selfish to want to lay that part of the job down for just a moment, to collect his thoughts, to be a normal teenager for a while?

"The truth is, Ned, I'm looking forward to graduating. I'm looking forward to pulling all-nighters with my best friend."

Peter felt his face heat up.

"And I'm looking forward to spending time with MJ."

He bulled through the lump in his throat and the unspoken part of it all, the part that kept nagging at him even when he wasn't anywhere near the suit. The voices that told him he was going to mess up, just like he always did, that someone else was going to die because of him, that Mr. Stark would be ashamed of him. That Uncle Ben would be ashamed. That even with his suit he could never live up to what everyone needed him to be.

"If I'm being completely honest, sometimes that's all that gets me to put on the suit on Saturdays anyway: the thought of MJ and me, laughing, hanging out. The thought of you and me, building stuff and geeking out over junk. It's just so much—"

At that moment, May poked her head inside the doorframe and smiled softly at the two boys. There were circles around her eyes, telling of her late day at work, but she looked extraordinarily peaceful when she spoke.

"Psst. Boys. Make sure you turn off the lights when you get ready to go to bed. And don't stay up too late; first day of school after Spring Break tomorrow."

Peter turned his head and grinned at her.

"OK, May. Love you."

May smiled and blew him a kiss.

"I love you, too, Pete."

Ned waved a hand at her, a smile of his own in place.

"Goodnight, Ms. Parker. Thanks again for letting me stay over…it's been a while."

May waggled her fingers at him.

"You, too, Ned. Sleep tight."

Once she left, Peter sat up and looked at Ned. There was a kind of pleading in his voice when he spoke again, as if he needed to convince Ned of…what?

"And then there's the thought of May. She's been through so much, Ned. She went _five _years without me, without anyone. I just want to be there for her, make sure she isn't worrying about me more than she has to. She deserves a break, too."

Ned nodded, averting his eyes considerately at the tears that were welling up in Peter's. Peter swiped the wetness away and sniffed. He tried out a watery smile.

"And I promise I don't plan on being gone forever. Just long enough."

There was a pause before Ned grinned.

"Cool. I was worried I'd have to start looking for another employer."

Peter laughed, and the ache in his chest didn't feel as bad as it had before.

* * *

A few hours later, with Ned's snoring in his ears, Peter laid awake and stared at the ceiling some more.

Conjured up from their conversation earlier, he kept seeing Beck and Mr. Stark and the battlefield. He tried pushing the images away with thoughts of the future—of where he would go to college, of the friends he'd make, of the tech he'd develop—but all that did was exacerbate the loneliness. It made missing his…mentor that much worse. It made his life as Spiderman seem so much more unnecessary and dangerous and more of a harmful thing to everyone than a good thing to anybody.

It wasn't until he turned his thoughts to MJ that things started to get better.

He pictured her smile, rare but made that much prettier by its rarity—

He heard her voice, a mixture of teasing and hope and humor—

He felt the smoothness of her hand and the gentle squeeze of her fingers as she said goodnight, a promise that they'd see each other tomorrow and that tomorrow would be all right—

He let those hopes fill him up and _then _turned his thoughts to the future, knowing that in their light things would seem so much more hopeful.

He forced himself to remember the good times with Ben and with Mr. Stark, with Ned and May. And finally, _finally_ after a few minutes of this, a peaceful smile stole across his face.

Peter turned over on his side, the air mattress rustling with the movement, and spotted the mask across the room. He closed his eyes, and its image vanished, leaving not even an afterimage in its wake.

And being _just _Peter Parker in that moment, no webs attached, was OK with him.

* * *

**EDIT (5/29/20): I said this in the first version of this story but didn't put it up on this, so I just thought I'd mention it: this is a slightly altered version of the events in the MCU. In my baby AU, May was NOT snapped away when Peter was. Also, if she ends up coming into the story at a later date (which she may...somehow), Shuri was not snapped either and became Queen of Wakanda in T'Challa's absence. But that's a different story (sort of). ;D**

**Author's Note: So, yeah. I took down the story you previously had on here and I'm replacing it. The fact is, the previous Of Roosters and Spiders you read will be no more. I'm rewriting the entire thing. I'm going to make Peter a little more true to character and I'm, hopefully, going to be writing better quality content. HOWEVER, the basic plot will still be the same. Peter and May are STILL going to be going to the Barton farm, but the order of things, the events in between, and the like will be different. They will be new. It will be like reading a new and better story. It will be more fun, less angsty (for now :D), hopefully more inspired, and hopefully more regular.**

**Anyway. I hope you enjoy this brand new introduction and the promise of better things to come. You guys are honestly just amazing, and the views and the follows and reviews (and reading all of your awesome stories) have brought me back from the brink of literary extinction. I WANT TO WRITE NOW AND MAKE ALL THE FEELS COME TO LIFE!**

**Ahem. Yes. Please do leave a review and tell me what you think, if you like this better, if you want more, and PLEASE any ideas of things you want to see in the future (anything can happen, just saying).**

**Special thanks to everyone who has read this, to everyone who has bookmarked or followed this, and especially to shewritesit18 (seriously, your encouragement and the whole vibe you somehow give off through the Internet is contagious and it means a lot coming from such a talented writer), bettybeetle, and I.D.'s Fantasy (I had no idea this was in the wrong category originally, so thank you!)_._**


	2. Meme Time is Special Time

**FFH Mid-Credits Scene**

* * *

If Peter's thoughts had been anywhere near coherent in the moments following Jameson's revelation, they would have probably gone something like this:

_**Error 404. Sanity not found.**_

He moved on pure instinct, refusing to look down at the people clustered on the streets beneath him, refusing to even look at a concerned MJ trying to get his attention. He shot a web at a nearby building and leapt off the light pole, dimly registering that he dented it a little bit in the process—

_There was another thing to add to his bad-guy repertoire—_

-and then his feet had hit the pavement and he was sprinting down a tight alleyway, dodging discarded chip bags and half-empty bottles, sucking in deep breaths in an attempt to quell the shakiness that had begun creeping from his head down to his toes.

Peter attached himself to a fire escape and hastily scaled the associated building when the alley reached its end, and then he was alone on top of what appeared to be a seedy apartment complex. Lungs bursting from everything but physical exertion, Peter fell into a crouch with his back against the hard brick.

He was shaking uncontrollably now, his breath coming out in short gasps, the sounds and smells and sights of the city spinning around in his consciousness without any apparent meaning. Peter clenched his fist and squeezed his eyes shut until darkness banished the twister of sensations.

"K—Karen?"

There was silence for one heavy moment as the AI came to life inside his suit, scanned his body for injuries, probably assessed the situation.

"Peter. Your heart rate is elevated and your rate of respiration has increased signif—"

The breath Peter hadn't been able to find rushed back into his lungs. He snorted out a hoarse, gasping excuse for a laugh and waved a trembling hand in the air and sank back onto his backside, legs too fatigued after the initial adrenaline rush to support his concentrated weight.

"I know. Look, I need you to…" he paused, nausea rolling in his stomach again, unsure of why he had reached out to her in the first place. He sucked in a deep, painful breath. Opened his eyes and then shut them just as quickly because for some reason the sight of the ugly brown brick was still too much to bear at the moment.

"Karen, I just need you to—" and that was it. His voice broke, and the so did the dam that had been holding his voice steady and the tears firmly at bay.

_Get yourself together, Peter!_

"Calling Aunt May," Karen said, her voice quiet and soft in a way that made him think she knew exactly what he needed, even if he didn't.

Except she _didn't_.

Peter's eyes shot open.

"No! Not yet, please, Karen." He gulped down the tears and then ripped off his mask. The thing was suffocating, and he didn't need to talk to anyone—not even Karen. He scrubbed angrily at his eyes until he was sure they were too red and swollen to admit any tears anyway.

"I need some time to think," he whispered. If Karen heard him and replied, he didn't know it.

Peter leaned his swimming head back against the wall.

With air back in his lungs and the mask off, his chest actually felt a tad lighter. Well, at least, it didn't feel as crushed as it had when that stupid building fell on him a couple of years ago (or actually more than a couple of years ago if he counted the Blip…)

He pressed his knuckles against his mouth and nose, stared blankly into a glare of afternoon sunlight. H could feel the burn of tears in his eyes and throat again, and he knew he had to get it together. He had to think logically. He had to remember that this wasn't the end of the world.

And yet—

It felt like it because he had just _been_ getting things together and—

MJ and him—

And Ned—

And high school and just being Peter and keeping Spiderman separate—

And most of all, even though those things hurt so much already—

How was he supposed to protect everyone now?

Spiderman wasn't just a hero—a vigilante at the least—to people anymore. He was an enemy, possibly a murderer, a person with a name and a face and a family and connections to exploit. And Spiderman had made some enemies, hadn't he? Dangerous ones, most likely. People who would be more than willing to do whatever it took to get back at the one who had so recklessly swung into their business and webbed them into jail.

And while there was a small voice in the back of his head that told him that maybe—just _maybe —_people wouldn't be quick to believe someone like Jameson and that there were probably ways to prove Beck's story wrong—

He knew that for the most part that was a fool's hope. People chased after the exciting. They wanted someone to blame sometimes because the world didn't always make sense, and blame was easier to accept than unknown.

_Haters gonna hate…_

Peter groaned aloud and slammed his fist into the ground, letting the pain that flared up his knuckles bring him back to the real world.

He wouldn't be able to do anything about it sitting here, feeling sorry for himself. He had to take action now. He had to get back home and make sure May and his friends were Ok. He had get a plan together because he couldn't hide behind Peter Parker this time.

It was only after he stood up, still loose with tremors and with that burning throb still a presence in his chest and throat, that he realized where he was. He must have run farther away than he thought because, unwittingly, he had climbed a building he had visited very often in the past—

A building he had sat on many times, taking a quick break from patrol, waiting for a call from Mr. Stark, daydreaming about becoming an Avenger and helping people in ways he never could on his own—

A building with a clear view of the old Avengers tower, rising in the distance, miles away and yet so close.

_Pretty fitting_, he thought wryly, _isn't it?_

* * *

It was a well-known fact that if you put a cap on to disguise your hair and a pair of glasses on to hide your eyes, you're practically a different person.

Peter was counting on this in case there were any wandering eyes as he made his way back to the apartment. Inevitably, despite all the security he was sure Mr. Stark had put up around his personal information, someone was going to figure out where he lived. His motto for that was "keep it from happening until it happens."

The thing was, Peter didn't actually own many, if _any_, baseball caps (baseball had never been his thing). He also didn't have any glasses (and even if he _did _own those things, there was no chance they would actually be with him). So, he improvised.

He stripped off the suit and pulled his school jacket hood up over his head, hiding his eyes and hair as best as he could. Then, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, making sure to slouch considerably, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and set off down the street with an arrogant swagger that felt so wrong and so weird.

_Seriously, though. Are you _supposed _to jerk like this?_

Although he did understand the whole plumber-pants-but-I'm-not-a-plumber look some people unknowingly donned when they walked this way. Combined with the downward pressure of his hands in his pockets and the foreign motion of his entire lower body as he layered on the swag, he was beginning to realize he could probably use a belt—

All of that aside, though—

He made it back to the apartment with no more trouble than the remnants of some concerned stares and a strong resolution to _never _try to act like a gangster (or whatever that was) again. He made his way up the stairs, dropping the act as he did so, and went to unlock the door—

Only to find that it was already unlocked.

His heart leapt to his throat in the same instant that his senses dialed up and he planted his feet, ready for action. May was at work, so she should be safe for now, but that didn't make him feel any better about the fact that someone had _already_ found out where he lived.

Not to mention what that meant for later—

He advanced into the house very cautiously, stepping light on his feet and with his hands fairly twitching in expectation of using thr web shooters. He made it two feet past the threshold before a voice made him jump out of his skin. And shoot a concentrated dose of web fluid at the ceiling. And quite possibly yelp just a little bit.

_Man, he was edgy. And probably clinically paranoid, too. Maybe a bit insane._

"Peter?"

Thank goodness. It was May. Peter threw his head back and sighed.

"Geesh, May! You almost made me web you to the wall!"

Though his second great adrenaline rush of the day was already retreating into relief—

Before he could say anything else, May was at his side and hugging him tight, her familiar smell washing over him, concern and love and worry and relief radiating off her so strongly he could almost physically feel it.

She pushed him back and held him at arm's length, her expression soft and her eyebrows drawn together.

"Are you OK?" she whispered.

Peter swallowed and forced himself to hold eye contact. He smiled at her and brought the clamoring voices that were shouting _NO_ in his head under control.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Promise."

May stared at him for a moment, and then her lips flattened. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders noticeably.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said quietly. "Don't you dare lie to me."

Ok. So…Peter had never realized how scary May could be, but seeing the intensity of her eyes—

Knowing that this was her way of calling him out on all the times he had lied to her about being fine or not hurt or not upset—

Seeing that there was no way she was letting him out of her sight until he told her the truth and allowed her to help him in any possible way she could—

Realizing just how _much _she had endured at his unknowing hands and at the hands of fate—losing Uncle Ben and then Peter for five years—

Peter Parker was very, very scared.

"Are. You. OK?" she repeated.

"…no?"

His voice might have even squeaked some at the end, and there _was _something warm at the corner of his eyes—

And then May was tearing up and she was hugging him and he was having a hard time thinking of anything to say or do because he just wanted a break. He just wanted the smallest of hiatuses from being Spiderman and trying to act like he knew what he was doing and wanted when he didn't. And he kinda wanted to just be May's nephew because how the heck had he never seen how truly amazing she was?

May finally pulled back and sighed. Peter sniffed and wiped at his nose. He was about to say something when the toilet flushed. It sounded like a mini explosion with his senses still on high alert, and it was _definitely _not what he had been expecting.

Peter froze, and May snapped her fingers (Peter tried not to flinch at that but it happened on its own anyway). She wiped the tears away from her eyes, delicately avoiding the smudge of mascara and eyeliner on her eyelids.

"Right! MJ came over as soon as she could. She said she really wanted to be here when you got back."

Peter's eyes widened in surprise, though in thinking about it, he guessed he probably shouldn't have been that surprised. Of course MJ would do something like that.

And also…he hadn't missed May's mischievous smile when she mentioned MJ. How could she even be mischievous in a time like—

MJ emerged from the hallway a moment later and paused when she saw Peter. Despite everything, awkwardness flared between them immediately. He gave her a small and dorky wave, and she just stared back for a moment, her eyes running over his probably still-red eyes and his strangled grin before she waved back with some hesitation. She looked just as confused as he was about the whole exchange.

"Hey," Peter said weakly. He was facepalming so hard inside, and he knew she probably saw that. But what could he say? He had just come off a life-changing revelation in front of the whole world, a panic attack, and probably the worst bad-kid-wayward-gangsta-boy impression ever.

"Hey."

May flashed Peter a small, sympathetic smile and then patted his shoulder softly.

"You two sit down," she said. "I'm going to go get something to drink."

* * *

"…and I honestly think that the tech would work and we could always get Ned in here because he's good with computers…oh, and the perimeter I could set up would be—"

MJ leaned over from the other side of the couch and gripped Peter's hand suddenly, cutting his rambling off midsentence and drying up any half-brained ideas that might have bubbled up next.

Her expression was carefully controlled when she looked at him, both eyebrows up. Peter knew the whole plan he had been throwing together since his time on the roof was more than a long shot, but it was pretty obvious no one knew what was coming next or what they were supposed to do. And he didn't intend to just sit here and let crap happen.

He licked his lips.

"What?"

MJ raised her eyebrows higher and released his hand. He kind of wished she hadn't.

"What do you think, numbskull? You're rambling like an idiot."

Peter withdrew without thinking about, feeling a little hurt considering he was honestly just stressed out of his mind and also he didn't know what the heck he needed to do—_and no one else seemed too terribly concerned_.

MJ let her words sink in before adding a modifier.

"_But_ I know you're not an idiot. So start thinking like a not-idiot."

Peter blinked.

May returned a moment later bearing three mugs of what was definitely not tea. It smelled more like chocolate milk.

Scratch that. It was definitely hot chocolate.

Peter accepted his steaming cup and looked down into it in confusion, swirling it around a little to waft the aroma into his face. He peered back up at May, who had given MJ her glass and had settled into the armchair opposite them, looking quite happy to be nursing a mug of steaming hot chocolate in the middle of a relatively warm Spring.

"Hot chocolate?"

May looked up and smiled at him.

"Yeah. I figured it was a good dopamine-booster," she replied. "Plus, I forgot that all the tea I have has lemon in it."

Peter made a face.

"Yeah, this is a much better choice."

He sipped at his hot chocolate and then pulled away from it when he felt MJ's gaze on him. He met her eyes, which were bright with something indiscernible and quite frankly unnerving.

"You can't be serious," she said.

Peter looked between her and May and slowly lowered the mug to his lap.

"Huh?"

"You don't like lemon things, do you?"

"Uh…no?"

"And let me guess…you used to, right?"

Peter furrowed his eyebrows and fidgeted in his seat, getting the impression that any word he said could and would be used against him in some way or another. Not to mention this was a weird and completely out-of-place conversation to be having right now.

"Yes?"

MJ laughed, and Peter had to resist the urge to reach out and grab her mug because of how dangerously close its contents came to splashing onto her hand. His gaze jumped to her face again.

"Wait, I feel like I'm missing something," May said, reminding the both of them, apparently, that she was still in the room.

Peter nodded in clueless agreement and cautiously sipped some more hot chocolate. MJ looked between them both with incredulity on her face.

"Come on, you guys seriously don't know?"

When she was met with only more raised eyebrows, she snorted.

"Spiders _hate _citrus. Oranges, lemons, limes. They'd rather die than be near it. I think you, Peter, must have inherited that trait."

There was silence for a few moments, and then May was laughing, too.

"I knew there was something weird when you stopped eating Cuties," she said, looking at Peter with sparkling eyes and the faintest hint of chocolate mustache.

Peter wrinkled his nose and scratched at his ear, unsure of exactly how he was supposed to react. He had a feeling that explaining that the nausea and feelings of imminent doom that assailed him whenever he encountered anything remotely citrus would just make his plight even funnier. And it was _not _funny.

_Ok. Maybe a little bit, but still…_

With a sigh of resignation and a purposeful avoidance of looking at Aunt May and MJ's look of shared mischief, Peter plunked his mug down on the coffee table. He looked at May, sorry that he had to bring solemnity back to the room but really, really anxious to get it over with anyway.

"So…what do we do now?"

May had to take a long, slow sip of her drink before answering, and when she did, all traces of amusement were long gone.

"I honestly don't know, Pete," she said quietly.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, each one of them lost in their own thoughts, before MJ broke in.

"Surely people won't actually believe him."

Peter shook his head and leaned forward onto his knees, but MJ seemed to like this thought, and she continued with it.

"I mean, you've spent a while on the streets as Spiderman—helping people out and…cleaning up for the police or whatever. Surely that has to count more than the word of some mysterious stranger."

May seemed cheered by this idea, too.

"She's got a good point! Maybe all we need is a little," May paused until Peter caught her eye and got the full effect—weird facial expressions and all. "PR juice."

And despite everything, Peter couldn't keep the grin from coming all by itself—it was just too weird. May had a way of doing that.

They lapsed into silence again before Peter ventured to interrupt it in favor of saying what he knew they had to be thinking, regardless of any hopes they had voiced before.

"The video's out there. My name's out there. And even if people aren't sure if I really am Spiderman, I don't think they're going to be afraid to come after us anyway."

* * *

Two cups of hot chocolate, a stomachache, and three depressingly stunted conversations later, and Peter became suddenly aware of something in the hallway outside the door.

He was on his feet in an instant, hand held up in warning to Aunt May and MJ, ears straining to pick out any other sound that could be used to identify whatever or whoever was lurking outside. Fortunately, they only had to wait for another few seconds because someone knocked very loudly and very familiarly on the door.

Peter knew who it was in an instant.

He threw open the door, and, as he had expected, there was Ned. His friend stood there, looking ruffled and carrying his computer bag under one arm. His face was slack with some burdensome knowledge, and Peter had to wince at the thought of whatever was coming next.

"Peter. You won't believe what's happened," he said, stepping zombie-like through the door and collapsing onto the couch where Peter had been sitting not long before. MJ scooted over to accommodate him as he pulled out his laptop.

Peter checked the hallway for imaginary assailants and then closed it softly behind him before turning to his friends again. He offered a shrug to a confused May.

"I decided to check the web—" here Ned paused and looked up at Peter with such self-admiration at his own unwitting choice of words that MJ flashed him a look of approval. "And guess what I found?"

Peter perched on the edge of the coffee table.

"Let me guess: Youtube was taking up arms to defend my identity?"

Ned shook his head unnecessarily.

"No. So much better."

He flipped the laptop around so Peter could see, and then it was his turn to go slack-jawed.

"No way," he whispered.

Ned nodded solemnly. MJ, looking a bit annoyed with how slow things were progressing, leaned over to look for herself. She pulled back and let May in to see.

"Really? You're drooling over a Reddit page?"

Ned gasped.

"Not just _any _Reddit page, MJ. This is a Reddit page dedicated solely to _Peter_."

"Well, Spiderman, really," Peter added almost as a course of habit.

"Not really a difference now, sweetie," May said, straightening up and looking down on the bunch with open affection for all of them written in her expression.

MJ threw her hands up, but Ned spoke before she could say anything else.

"Not only that, but look."

He pointed at the first username to have written a post—_TheFlashMan_—and began to read it aloud:

"'_Ok. I just wanted to clear something up bc that stupid video we all saw on the news? Its fake. I go to high school with peter parker and there's absolutely no way he's Spiderman._

_ That's right, your man TheFlashMan goes to school with this guy and im telling you there's no way that dork is Spiderman. I'll give you five good reasons why:_

_Once in gym class we were told to do twenty push-ups and Peter got down on his hands and knees and just started crying. Yeah. He wasn't like bawling or anything, but the dude was DEFINITELY crying. Does that sound like a superhero to you? I didn't think so…'_"

Ned took a deep breath and May held up her hands.

"Wait, wait, wait. What's going on here?"

Peter sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, not so much angry at Flash as he was embarrassed. For himself _and _Flash.

"I think this is Flash from school, you know the, uh, guy I told you I took the car from a while back?"

May's eyes filled with understanding and she made an 'o' with her mouth.

"Ahh. Gotcha. So…is he making this stuff up or did you actually, you know…" May balled her fists and puckered her lips, unsuccessfully attempting a crying baby impression. MJ snickered.

"Uh…not _exactly._ It's a…" Peter sighed again. "It's a long story, and trust me, you don't want to hear it."

Ned cleared his throat.

"Actually they might. It was kind of fu—"

"Keep reading, please, Ned."

Peter tried to ignore MJ's intense I'm-gonna-know-more stare as Ned continued:

"'_2\. Peter can't even play dodgeball so why would anyone think he could throw cars and stop buses with his bare hands?! I've seen him try to throw a dodgeball and it bounce back up and hit _him_. I'm not even kidding either. Just ask any of his classmates and they'll tell you this guy is a wimp_

_3\. ive seen Peter at school and on trips with our class when Spiderman was out doing stuff, so there's no way he could be in two places at once_

_4\. Peter Parker is literally the worst choice ever for a superhero when there are so many other options out there (like come on. There's me, after all, or the Rock). I think that's all I need to say there_

_5\. Why would we believe some total stranger in a flashy (you just got Flashed…see what I did there?)_…'"

Ned paused again just so he could wince and all four of them could have a moment of silence in honor of their last few brain cells. The constant insults and incredibly vicious attacks Flash was broadcasting to the world were bad enough. The attempts at humor were just sad. Ned cleared his throat.

"'…_after Spiderman has helped save hundreds of people and do hundreds of good things in our very own city? I think he deserves a little more credit than that, and anyone who says different is stupid in my opinion._

_Spiderman is cool, strong, courageous and definitely not a dork like Peter. He (not Peter) knows what it means to do the right thing even when he knows it might make him unpopular or will put his life in danger, and that's more than any of us will ever know I think._

_Spiderman is b*****._

_Peter Parker is not._

_Don't believe everything you see on the internet._

_Also, like, comment, and subscribe to my Youtube channel at spidey'sno1fan for more analyses like these and other awesome content. Become a part of the Flash Mob today!'"_

Ned sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through his cheeks before turning to look up at Peter. May had disappeared into the kitchen with the mugs, so it was just them three, huddled around the computer, lamenting the loss of so many IQ points.

MJ spoke first.

"Wow. All I can say is that I know Flash can use better grammar than that. He must have been really p*****."

Peter crossed his arms and looked at her.

"Hey! That's _all _you can say?"

She shrugged.

"I mean, he did make a few good points…"

Peter narrowed his eyes at her.

"Oh, wait. A few more people commented down below this…"

Ned scanned the next few comments without letting his two friends see, his face becoming more and more horrified the farther he went on. He finally just stopped and looked up, grimacing.

"You really don't want to know what all those said."

Peter bit his lip.

"They're really that bad?"

Ned nodded.

"A couple more of our classmates joined in. And I think a few people from other countries because I really had no idea what they were saying. Oh, and lots of people who were…uh…agreeing with…Mysterio."

Peter groaned and began pacing, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

"I can't believe the most support I'm getting on Reddit—basically one of the weirdest places on the Internet—is from Flash. And that hardly even qualifies as support!"

Ned looked back down at the computer. His jaw dropped a second later.

"Guys," he announced, turning the laptop very slowly around. "I now present to you the peak of Internet culture."

And there on the screen was what had to be a thing of Peter's nightmares—

A grotesque blending of real and artificial—

A murderous mixture of colors and shapes and lines that should never meet—

It was the yearbook picture Jameson had released, except someone had taken the time and effort in MS Paint to draw spider appendages and fangs sprouting from his head. Random splashes of color and a few unidentified flying objects added the final touches. Above it was the very original and very (not) fitting caption:

**No one:**

**Literally no one:**

**Peter Parker:**

Author credit? _The formidable FlashMan._

Of course, MJ legitimately started cackling at the sight and was already reaching for Ned's laptop, muttering something about "heck yeah, now that's some high-level art right there."

Peter just wondered how on earth his life had fallen so far, so fast, so hard.

_And what he was supposed to do with all the very strange and very fragmented pieces now._

May called from the kitchen.

"You three want pizza or Chinese? I think we're gonna need a night in."

Peter agreed. There was no way he _could _sleep tonight and no way he wanted to-someone needed to rig up that motion sensor and stay up, just in case.

And also: he was starving.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's it. I'm insane and sleep deprived (and late by one or two days depending on how you look at it AH). I'm sorry it had to happen so early in the story but honestly? I'm officially crazy and also I don't think this made one LICK of sense but by gosh I was gonna write it all today once I started at, like, 6:30 yesterday morning (yes it's 12:30 AM now I know) and WOW I had fun and watched lots of clips from the movies and WHOOOOO MEMES. (Also, I swear this story will get more serious and stuff as it gets on...for now we're just gonna let them have their anxious fun and hope for the best. The. Angst. Will. COME.)**

**AHem. No. I am seriously sorry for this, people. I know this is probably 75% crap, 10% character shenanigans, and about 15% me just being delirious and thoroughly enjoying writing again. Even if it is this. So yeah. Please accept this with a grain of salt-Ill be getting to the Farm within the next couple of chapters. Probably. Maybe two. HA.**

**But all that aside, PLEASE tell me what you think (even if you just want to rave at me for wasting your precious life...I'll take it like a warrior, I promise, and maybe it'll shock me into something better for next time), PLEASE bear with me, and PLEASE FOR GOODNESS SAKE HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY AND JUST BE OK DURING CRAZY TIMES AND THROUGH STRANGE HAPPENINGS.**

**You're awesome and loved and I am just so glad that anyone stops by to read this thing so just know that the time you spend here is appreciated regardless. :D :D :D :D**

**(Also, special thanks to _shewritesit18_ again for her continued support and awesomeness...your words mean SO much, truly, and special thanks to all those who have liked, followed, and enjoyed in any small way. If I can spread some joy or some giddiness or some [insert positive emotion here] then I'll be happy enough with this...maybe XD)**

**BYE AND UNTIL NEXT TIMEEEEEEE ;P**


	3. Shockwaves Stink, By the Way

John Jonah Jameson stared out across the room, tapping mindlessly on his desk with a pen.

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

Evening had just truly fallen, and the office was deserted except for him—which was perfectly fine in his estimation because all the idiots employed here didn't understand what a good story looked like anyhow. Jameson growled and whirled his chair away from the desk so that he was staring out into the slimy alley below.

_One day, _he thought, _I'm going to have a penthouse view for all my trouble and sacrifice. None of this trash._

His lips curled upwards into a ghostly smile just at the thought of it. His wife could have all the baubles and jewels she wanted; his kids could attend only the best private schools in the borough; and him? Jameson leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction.

_He _could get the fame, the press, the fancy suits and all the recognition his talents warranted. And authority—he'd have authority over multiple offices across the city, be in charge of droves of people more than happy to dig out only the best and most pressing stories to found.

He only had to make use of the truth he'd been so graciously handed.

The man turned back to his desk and pushed himself up against it until he was staring once more at his bare office and the closed laptop humming at his fingertips.

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

The question was what's next? He'd dropped the bombshell. He'd done the damage. Spiderman, number one public menace in this city and creepy-crawly circus performer of the slums, had been exposed. Peter Parker, whoever the heck that was, had been exposed. But he needed _more_. He needed more proof, more evidence. He needed more eyewitnesses, more testimonies, more connections, and more of a grasp on this little brat running around in bright tights.

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

It didn't even matter, Jameson reasoned further, if a few of those pieces of evidence weren't completely true, either. They were means to a better end—a truthful end. He clenched the pen in his fist, momentarily bringing its soothingly regular taps to an end, and forced himself to remember why he had decided to become a reporter in the first place.

Lady Justice, he well understood, peeked through her blindfold a little too often. His job, as he had vowed his family and especially himself years ago, was to bring the truth into the open so that justice _couldn't_ claim ignorance when it came to the facts. By the stories he'd throw into the open, embellished or not, people would have to come to terms with the justice system in all its tarnished glory.

Spiderman and every other reckless vigilante superhero _was _a danger—just look at Sokovia and Germany and even the ferry right here in the city! As far as he was concerned, all of the men, women, and even hormonal teenagers, it seemed, who deliberately hid their face or cowered behind plates of armor or refused to abide by the laws like normal people could just take their petty rationalizations and go off somewhere—

"Sir?"

Jameson started and dropped the pen to his feet. He looked up to find his scrawny secretary (Edmund? Ed?) standing sheepishly in the doorway. Jameson glowered at him. He didn't like to be interrupted in anything he did, especially by low-levels after hours.

"What?" he snapped.

The kid swallowed and avoided Jameson's eyes quite conspicuously.

"I, uh, just wanted to know if you wanted me to turn the lights off as I left? Is…is that Ok?"

Jameson clenched his jaw.

"Yeah, whatever. You don't wanna use all the **** electricity up, do ya?"

Secretary-boy shook his head and stumbled over some garbled response that contained something suspiciously like "goodnight", and then he tripped over himself all the way to the door and into his car. Jameson rolled his eyes and grunted as he reached down to retrieve the fallen pen.

But…

The jangle of the keys as they searched for the lock reminded the man of something he hadn't even considered yet. Something that could throw the doors of possibility wide open. Something that could flush one Peter Parker—protected as he was by annoyingly upright school officials (who had refused to comment on the reveal) and complicated cybersecurity (courtesy of Stark Industries, fittingly enough)—out of whatever dark corner he'd built his web in.

As a bonus, it was also something that had the potential to generate a lot of juicy conflict between Spiderman and whatever enemies he had stashed throughout the city. In his line of work, conflict equaled cash.

Jameson rubbed his hands together and stood. With a grin, he leaned forward and picked his phone up off the desk, and then he searched through his desk drawers until he found the hastily scrawled and likely very seedy contact information his source had given him not long before.

He dialed the number easily and waited only two rings before someone on the other end picked up.

"Yeah. Will, was it? Listen up. I got a job for ya that has to do with that webslinger, and you might want to get some of your buddies on it, too…"

* * *

Peter jerked awake.

He was propped up against the far end of a fire escape landing overlooking the alley beside his apartment complex, and even though he had purposefully picked the most uncomfortable position he could imagine, it appeared that his body had betrayed him once more. He yawned and winced as he rubbed at a sore place on his side.

"Karen, what time is it?" he asked, scanning the street through the familiar lenses of his mask.

"It is currently 4:11 A.M."

"Geez. It feels like it should be about noon tomorrow," Peter muttered. He reached inside his mask and rubbed at a particularly intense itch on his nose. That was one thing he hadn't entirely figured out how to prevent: face itches. They could get pretty distracting in the heat of combat. Not to mention they were hard to scratch while remaining aware of his surroundings.

Satisfied that no one had snuck up on him during his brief dozing session, though, Peter relaxed (as much as possible, that is) back into the metal of the fire escape. He crossed his arms and ran through what had happened since yesterday afternoon.

Both Ned and MJ had decided to return home after pizza and some discussion—this despite Peter's barely veiled insistence that they remain as close to his protection as possible. He didn't know how fast people would be able to figure out where he lived and he was close to, but he was fairly certain it would happen. Probably sooner rather than later. Having his friends spread out across the city seemed a bigger risk than he wanted them to take, but they had decided that the chances of someone finding and targeting them in a single night was pretty low.

They had also decided that Peter wasn't going to school in the morning. It was going to be suspicious, yeah, but there was no way he could mentally handle all the questions he was going to get—they would render him unable to pay attention in class anyway, which kind of defeated the entire purpose of school.

Peter groped around for his phone before locating it tucked under his calf, and he pulled it up to his face, squinting into the artificial glamor.

Yep.

Thirty-one messages, eleven missed phone calls.

His email, which he rarely checked anyway, was probably bursting with unread messages from his classmates and Decathlon team as well. He frowned as he considered this. Some of those guys knew where he lived, but surely they wouldn't surrender any information if approached and—

Eh. He'd get nowhere worrying about it. He wasn't sure he had the mental juice to follow any rational line of thinking anyway right now. Surprisingly, his brain had settled into only a vaguely uneasy state after pizza tonight—not anywhere near the stress level it had been right after the Reveal. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing, so he chose to be optimistic about the whole thing.

With another yawn, he laced his fingers together, stretched out his legs in front of him, and crossed them at the ankles. It wasn't long until dawn, and if anyone hadn't shown up yet, he doubted anyone would.

"Karen," he said, voice slow as exhaustion pulled at him once more. "What do you think about all of it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Peter."

"Aw, come on. You know. Me being revealed as Spiderman."

"I am not programmed to give such an opinionated answer."

Peter's eyes snapped back open. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"No way, Karen. You've said all sorts of stuff that is really, really opinionated. And I mean," Peter's voice faltered. "I mean, MisterStark created you, so I really don't think—"

"However, Peter, I am not Tony Stark. He created me specifically for _your _needs. Not his."

_She wasn't wrong there._

Peter's eyelids drooped back over his eyes again, and he let out a small sigh. Well, now he had no desire whatsoever to continue this conversation. He hadn't even been thinking about all of _that_…until now. And now his mind felt like a water tank, slowly filling up with a painful mixture of good and bad memories that he could neither ignore nor banish.

"Is there anything question you would like me to answer?" Karen asked prompted, though her voice was softer than before. He still couldn't wrap his mind around how much of a personality she had (despite her sudden desire to be "unopinionated"). Kind of didn't want to if it meant thinking too hard about Mr. Stark.

"Nope. Thanks, though."

"You're welcome."

He sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to ignore his thoughts before he gave up and stood. He wasn't going to even get in a quick doze now, not with all these emotions sitting on his chest. He might as well go back into the house and grab a snack or something. He was pretty sure there was some leftover pizza he could throw in the microwave…

Right as he turned away from the alley, though, something buzzed in his head—

A little, familiar tickle of alarm—

His Spidey-sense, warning him to turn and possibly duck—

Peter didn't respond in time, though, and a pulse of energy slammed into his entire body, pitching him sideways and into brick side of the apartment complex with a yelp. Pain flared instantly in his head, ribs, and the arm that had been crushed against the side of the building.

Peter gathered himself into a crouch as soon as he could and scanned the alley from where the pulse had originated. He cradled his arm, seeing nothing. His heart pounded, adrenaline already coursing through his veins.

"What the—"

This time he was able to respond to his Spidey-sense, and he leapt to the right, twisting as he shot a web at the top of the building to pull himself up. His equilibrium must have been a little off following the original blast, however, because he didn't shoot high enough, and the web fell short. Instead of being able to scramble to the roof, he swung himself right into the wall. Again. On the same side as a few seconds ago.

He grunted as his arm crunched once more against the brick, ignoring the flashing warnings in his suit, and then he quickly swung with his good arm toward the fire escape. He let go and landed clumsily and with no small amount of pain on the outside of the railing, clinging to it halfheartedly in favor of his injured arm. He looked down just in time to see someone dodging down a side street, hood pulled over his head, what Peter presumed to be a weapon tucked against his chest.

Peter didn't think twice before jumping down to the street and setting up in pursuit.

He had just rounded the corner and could see his assailant not a hundred feet ahead when the man turned and shot another blast of energy at him. Peter dodged it, hearing it strike a dumpster behind him with a bang that had to have woken a couple of people up (he didn't hear any cats, like in cartoons, though). He grunted and extended his arm to shoot a web at the fleeing man.

"Look, man, it's a little early for this, don't you think?" he shouted, right as he let the web fly. It wrapped around the man's legs like a charm, and he fell forward, landing heavily on one arm. Peter noticed in a flash why he hadn't extended the other arm to catch himself. His eyes widened.

"I _knew _that electric tingle was familiar!" he yelped, right as the man flipped himself over and pointed the gauntlet on his hand at Peter. He threw his hands up in conciliation.

It was the Shocker, a little older than Peter remembered him, but definitely still intent on killing him. Why did the bad guys always get out of jail? He hated having to clean up old messes—they were harder to deal with when they'd had time to become bitter over their previous encounter with him.

"Looks like you got a suit upgrade, _Spiderman_," the man hissed, hand still extended from his crunch-like position on the ground. Peter shrugged.

"Yeah, gotta keep up with the trends," he said, eyes searching for a way to get to his adversary before he let out another blast of energy. Those things freaking hurt.

"Too bad I'm going to have to mess up, then," Shocker said, and a moment later he had discharged another energy pulse. This one hit Peter full in the chest (_come on, I haven't slept all night!_), and he was thrown backwards what seemed like a good twenty feet, breath whooshing out of his chest, ribs feeling like they were caving into his lungs. He was pretty sure Shocker had gotten an upgrade to his gauntlet, too.

Peter tried to roll back to his feet, but he felt extraordinarily heavy, and his muscles had started spasming from the shock of the electricity. Not to mention his ribs and arm felt like they were on fire. Before he knew it, the Shocker had somehow managed to disentangle his legs from most of the webbing and was standing over him, grinning, gauntlet aimed at Peter's head.

He knew a blast from this distance would probably liquefy his brain. That wouldn't be any fun at all.

Peter stared at the man.

"Look what I found," Shocker said quietly. "A scared teenager trying to play way outta his league."

Peter froze. Crap. Of course the guy knew who he was. Why else would he show up outside his house, ready to kill him? He was stupid to think no one would figure out who he was and where he lived so quickly when he had made so many enemies over the years—and had become one of the only prominent superheroes he knew about in the city. He just didn't think it would be this guy of all people.

Shocker bent down, gauntlet still humming with energy. Peter did note it was quieter than the previous model when at rest and when firing; it was definitely a cool piece of tech, if you were into things like that—

"I guess your secret's not so safe anymore, huh, _Peter_? Daddy Stark not here to protect you?"

Now _that _made Peter catch his breath—mostly because it was true, wasn't it? He had relied on Mr. Stark for a lot of his security and for backup. Now he was lying here at this dude's feet, exposed, humiliated, a failure at everything superhero. And there was no Mr. Stark to help him in any way at all. This had to be one of the worst ways he could have died.

_He didn't even have any good last words prepared!_

Not allowing himself another thought, Peter brought his hands up and wrenched the Shocker gauntlet to the side, where it discharged into the pavement and created a brand-new pothole about the size of a kiddie pool (_sorry, citizens of Queens…_).

In seconds, Peter had jumped to his feet and forced Shocker back, each hand clasped tightly around the other man's wrists, holding them straight up in the air, clenching hard enough that both their faces were tight with pain (_yeah, his wrist might have been just a taad broken)_. He stood there for a second, breathing hard, staring at the Shocker, caught between warring thoughts and feelings.

The two stared at each other for a moment before Shocker tried to bring his knee up into Peter's groin_ and _headbutt his face at the same time. A little excessive in Peter's mind. Thankfully, Peter anticipated the move and let go of Shocker at the last moment, twisting and then ramming himself into the man's stomach while he was still off-balance.

Shocker grunted but didn't fall as Peter had hoped, instead deciding to grab at Peter's neck with his one bare hand and to press his gauntleted hand into Peter's shoulder.

_Ouch. Now _that _would hurt._

Peter summoned all the strength he had and forced his torso up, which had the fortunate effect of dislodging Shocker and causing him to slide up and over Peter's back, but which had the _unfortunate_ effect of wrenching Peter's head back as the man's other hand retained its grip on his throat. The net effect was the Shocker on his back on the ground, gasping for the air that had been literally knocked out of him, and Peter on his back beside him, also struggling to breathe.

"You…really…smell like…burnt French fries…" Peter choked, finally managing to twist the man's hand off his throat. He jumped to his feet in time to slam his foot down on Shocker's other hand, which he had shakily raised to fire another pulse. Shocker cried out in pain, and Peter winced despite himself. That didn't stop him from crouching down and pressing a knee to the man's chest and taking a firm grip of his other hand, though.

"Welp. Looks like you won't be able to tell your pals about the ole Parker residence now, buddy," Peter panted, shrugging, still shaking, pain radiating from pretty much everywhere in his body.

Shocker, still gasping for air, hacked out a wad of spit and smiled in a _shockingly _fatherly way at his captor (_too soon,_ Peter thought to himself).

"I ain't working alone, kid. And believe me when I say that we'll do whatever it takes to get what we want, even if it is something as unpleasant as killing a baby-faced kid and his family."

Peter's eyes widened, and he almost leapt off the man immediately to get back to May, but he managed to rein his impulse in. He jumped up and in one fluid motion webbed the guy to the ground, complete with a patch of thick web over his mouth. He then reached down and pulled the gauntlet off his enemy, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain from the man as it hesitantly relinquished its grip on his arm.

Tucking it against his side and without another look back, Peter turned and sprinted the way he had come, dread blossoming inside his stomach—

Guilt pressing in on his bruised throat—

Pain flaring out from his battered body with every step—

Hardly daring to hope that he wasn't too late.

_Not you too May not you too May not you too May…_

* * *

He knew there was something wrong before he ever saw the door.

It wasn't even his Spidey-sense that told him, either. It was his ears. Someone was crying. Peter took the stairs to his apartment three at a time, ribs aching in protest, arm beginning to feel numb. When he reached the door, it was standing wide open, and there was a piece of paper nailed into its panels.

The paper was dripping red.

Peter felt like he was about to throw up, but he didn't bother trying to read the paper before he had sprinted into the apartment. The couch had been overturned, end-tables had been knocked over, the vase of flowers May had gotten from Happy a few days ago were strewn across the floor, and May was nowhere to be found.

He found his voice with great difficulty and kept his fingers tight, ready to shoot a web, as he slowly stepped through wreckage.

"M—May?"

He hadn't heard the crying since he had reached the door, though he wasn't sure if that was because he didn't want to or because it had actually stopped. Or if maybe he had just been imagining it in hope because crying meant someone was alive.

_Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…_

"Peter?! Peter!"

And there she was, running out of her bedroom in her pajamas, tears streaming down her face. Peter felt himself go weak when he realized she was completely unharmed—physically. Peter dropped the gauntlet he had taken from Shocker, and she rushed up to him, pulling him into a hug. Pain flashed across his torso and his pinned arm, and it took all the energy he had left to not cry out at the sharpness of it. He was pretty sure that was a rib that popped, too.

She pushed away mercifully a second later, and Peter took off his mask so she could see his face. He couldn't help but feel tears of his own begin to warm his vision at just how terrified she looked. She was trembling all over, and her eyes were so, so red. He was sure he hadn't seen her look this broken since…since…Ben had—

"_I thought I lost you again_," May whispered, her voice breaking. She sucked in a breath and reached a trembling hand to his face, which he knew looked a bit lopsided because he could feel the swelling from the wall on one side—

Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet through the pain and his own tears. He sucked in a piercing breath and met her eyes, wanting nothing more than to hug her again despite how badly it hurt.

"I'm sorry, May, I swear I didn't mean to leave you and I was supposed to be protecting you and I promise if I had known I would have been here quicker but some bad guys know where we live now and I—"

May closed her eyes and cut him off with another hug, gentler this time.

"Peter," she said, her voice till quiet and thin but more composed than before. "Something's going to have to change."

Peter couldn't agree more.

_But what?_

* * *

"Karen, analyze this blood sample. Please."

"Done."

Peter had closed the door, and he and May had straightened up the apartment somewhat. Now, he held the bloody piece of paper delicately between his thumb and forefinger, deciding he didn't want to read it until he knew what exactly was on it. Maybe it was, like, fake Halloween blood or something? He had already called Ned and MJ and found out that they were safe (though he couldn't shake the feeling that that security wouldn't be guaranteed for long). If someone had been hurt because of him—

"The blood belongs to a feline, Peter, likely a young male."

Peter let out a whoosh of air. Yeah, he felt really bad about the cat, but it wasn't a human. No one had died or been sliced up on his account (_yet…_). "Thanks, Karen," he said quietly. May the poor tom rest in peace, and may the people responsible be locked up for animal cruelty or mobbed by PETA.

Peter laid the paper down on the counter, grimacing at how nasty it was, and held his breath as he flipped it over to see what it said. May came over, a blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, her eyes still red and swollen. Peter swallowed and read it out loud:

**"They won't be safe until Spiderman is gone."**

That was all.

A threat. A threat to the people Peter loved and cared about and had wanted so desperately to keep out of the deadly sideshow that had become his life as Spiderman. He felt angry tears prick at his vision, and he hadn't realized he had clenched his fists until May put a comforting hand on his arm.

"I've called Happy," she said. "He's coming tomorrow to help us figure things out."

Peter nodded and jerked away at the sudden pain her touch had caused, and May ran her eyes over his filthy suit as if doing so for the first time.

"Honey, tell me where you're hurt. What can I do?"

Peter shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the sudden rush of anger and fresh adrenaline making his head spin. A moment later, he looked up again and exhaled.

"May, I'll be back in just a second. There's a bad guy I need to get secured so the police can pick him up. I promise you'll be safe, OK. I promise I'll come back."

He turned away before he could see anymore emotion welling up in May's eyes and then he was racing back to where he had left Shocker, wondering how he hadn't realized how relatively easy it had been to disable the man, wondering what was going to come next, wondering how things were going to get any better. The _physical _pain right now sure wasn't getting any better, but at least he knew it was his just punishment for how badly he had screwed up.

When he got there, though, Shocker was gone.

The street was empty, and Peter stood there alone, bruised, afraid, and unmasked.

* * *

**A/N: Hey! I decided to get a chapter done early to make up for last week's slightly late chapter. And also I wanted to write. ;D Thanks to everyone who has liked, followed, and read this little WIP. I'm having some fun with this rewrite, and while it might be taking significantly longer to actually get to the farm, I'm hoping I'm establishing some good groundwork for all the stuff that will happen AT the farm. So, bear with me and please do enjoy the ride. ****Also, I have no idea where the cat thing came from. I'm sorry. The villains (which are probably going to play a bigger role later on) had a mind of their own, and they wanted to be cruel and freak Peter and May out. They did that, so, yay (but not really ugh).**

**Anyway, please let me know what you think, tell me what I can do better on (because I really do want to improve my craft, not only for fanfiction but also for my other writing projects), and let me know what you want to see in the future!**

**Thanks, and I'll be updating more next week if all goes according to plan! :)**

**~RW**


	4. Just Keep Nodding

Happy Hogan was definitely not happy.

Not only had his well-deserved vacation been interrupted by a breathless, tear-stained call, but two people he had promised to protect at all costs—if only to himself—were in danger. Again. And of course it had something to do with superhero work. If he ever made it to true retirement age, he was _definitely _going to become a recluse and go live somewhere far, far away from anything remotely heroic.

The truth was, Happy wasn't a young man. He wasn't an old man. But he _was _an aging man, and that meant his life should be slowing down a little bit in preparation for old age. Was it truly too much to ask for a short, three-day vacation on the beach, sipping cocktails, watching the waves, _relaxing_? Yes, apparently, when you had a certain pig-headed teenaged hero as one of your responsibilities, courtesy of your pig-headed, heroic former boss and late friend.

And now it was raining—a far cry from the blessedly dry, sunny beaches of the Caribbean.

The man paused in front of the Parkers' door, a little out of breath from mounting the stairs so quickly, and tried to ignore the thread of nausea in his gut at the suspiciously blood-like smear on its wooden panels.

He knocked as lightly as he could manage and waited a beat, apprehension mounting. When no one answered, he tried the knob and found the door unlocked. He stared at it, aghast.

Did _anyone _know _anything _about basic security in his life? May and the kid had just been attacked, and they hadn't even locked the door back!?

Happy pushed the offending door open. It was dark and nearly completely silent inside—save for a soft, lilting voice coming from the general area of the couch. Happy paused again, curious despite himself. It was May's voice, singing words he couldn't quite make out, the melody weaving in and out of the chaotic darkness of the tiny space—a bright spot in the eight o' clock morning gloom.

He cleared his throat before he did anything embarrassing—like tear up—and then stepped into view of the couch. He felt suddenly, unfamiliarly self-conscious. It had been a few weeks since he had seen May, after all. And his sleep-deprived, anxiety-shot heart honestly wasn't prepared for the soft picture she was currently one-half of.

May, still in her pajamas, was sitting with Peter laid across the couch next to her, his head resting in her lap. He was fast asleep, and May was gently stroking his hair, now humming her indeterminate tune instead of singing it. The poor kid hadn't even taken off his suit yet.

Happy offered her the best smile he could manage.

She smiled weakly back, though the sleeplessness and worry pooled darkly beneath her eyes told him all he needed to know. Happy walked softly forward and sank into the armchair opposite the couch, wincing as it let out a whining creak at its sudden occupant.

He nodded towards sleeping Peter.

"What about him?" he all but mouthed. No need to wake the kid up after such a rough night; they could probably all use some sleep.

May sighed and looked down at her nephew, her fingers still rhythmically stroking Peter's curls. She smiled another sad smile, something he had gotten used to during the time that they had believed Peter was well and truly gone. Dusted away on some God-forsaken planet in space.

"Still being stronger than he should have to be," she replied. Her eyes met Happy's again, and they were gentle, understanding, sad.

"And I'm fine, too, Happy."

Happy let out a breath of air that had been trapped in his lungs for far too long, and only now did he realize how tense he had been. He leaned back farther into the armchair and laid his head against its back.

"Do I even want to know what happened?"

He couldn't see May's face with his head tilted up as it was, but he could imagine quite clearly the look she was probably giving him—a mixture of mischief and good-natured attitude that only she seemed able to pull off without annoying him.

"Probably not," she admitted quietly. "But you might need to if we're going to figure out what has to happen next."

Happy snorted.

"Then I'm not asking yet."

He looked back up at the pair, and Peter stirred slightly, his eyebrows furrowing as if in concern, the hand he had thrown over the edge of the couch twitching in a convulsion of uneasy rest. Happy shook his head.

"What a mess," he muttered, and he could tell that May more than agreed with him.

* * *

Someone knocked on the door right as Happy flipped the first pancake in the pan.

He swore softly and shot a look at May, who had already assumed a somewhat pained expression in anticipation of disturbing a still-sleeping Peter. She nodded in understanding at his look, though, and Happy made his way to the door. He peered through the peephole and found exactly what he had been expecting, though he wasn't sure how anyone had made it past Tony's cyber-safeguards so quickly. He positioned himself in a way that obscured the sight of May and Peter on the couch, unchained the door, and then threw it open aggressively.

The rain-spotted reporter standing there had obviously not been expecting to be greeted by an angry man with a spatula. He took off his hat and dipped his head in greeting, briefcase at his side, a small microphone pinned to his lapel.

"Mr. Parker, sir? This is the Parker residence? I was wondering if—"

"Nope. John Smith. Go find someone else to bother, kid."

Happy tried to close the door, but the young man didn't give up so easily, and he jammed his foot between the door and the doorframe. Happy raised his eyebrows at him. The man cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think I've got the address wrong on this one. Does a Peter Parker live here? I just want to ask a few questions—that's all."

Happy stared him down and blinked.

"No."

"Look, I swear I don't want any trouble. Just a few questi—"

Happy kicked the man's foot out of the door and slammed it in his face, making sure to actually chain and _lock _it this time. He ignored the ensuing knocks and plaintive pleas as he made his way back to the kitchen area. At least the rain would likely deter any other paparazzi who might know where Peter lived. The pancake was burning.

Not five minutes later, Peter woke up.

"Good morning, Pete," May said quietly, the hint of a smile in her voice. Happy didn't turn around, but he heard the groan of the couch as Peter sat up. The man threw the last two deformed pancakes down onto the plate—he hadn't exactly had much practice making them since Tony had been gone and no longer relied on him to cook even a vaguely nutritious breakfast on the mornings Pepper was out.

"H—Happy? Is that you?" Peter said, his voice hoarse and distorted with the remnants of sleep.

Happy turned and quirked his eyebrows at him.

"Yeah, who else would it be?"

The man tried to keep his expression clear of concern or surprise, but he couldn't help but feel his heart clench a little at how despondent Peter looked. He had a receding bruise down one side of his face, his hair was rumpled and damp-pressed across his head, and he was looking at Happy with such a gaunt, unguarded expression that he might as well have been holding a sign that had "help me" written across it in bold letters. Not to mention he looked a little embarrassed at having been caught unawares and asleep by the man's early arrival.

With a sloppy yawn, Peter shook his head and tried to stand. He swayed for a second, grimacing, before straightening up. He looked down at his suit and then at May, gaze heavy and uncertain. His eyes flashed back to Happy. He was definitely still out of it this morning.

"I'm gonna go change, 'cause I'm guessing we're going to have to be somewhere." He paused and looked quite conspicuously between May and Happy. "Just don't, uh, eat all the pancakes…"

May smiled and patted his hand before he disappeared into the back, leaving just her and Happy in the room.

* * *

As it turned out, _they _were going somewhere.

Peter shoveled down a quick breakfast, mildly surprised at how well Happy could make pancakes (aside from the shape, that is), and then the man was rushing him and May out the door and into a rental car parked a little ways from the door. He explained what was happening as they went.

"Pepper agreed to a meeting when I talked to her last night—"

"This _morning_," Peter corrected. Happy glared at him. Peter grinned into the rearview mirror.

"—and she wanted Leeds and Jones there, too. She seemed to have some kind of plan brewing."

Peter frowned at the thought of getting Ned and MJ's parents on board with that arrangement (though, come to think of it—he hadn't ever met MJ's parents, had he?) May smiled from the passenger seat and placed a hand over one of Happy's resting on the gear shifter. Peter looked away as quickly as he could—there were no PDA rules outside of school, unfortunately.

"I wouldn't doubt that, knowing Pepper," she said lightly. Happy, obviously pleased at their physical contact, just flashed her a suppressed grin and pulled out onto the main road.

Not for the first time, Peter was left with a weird feeling at May's allusion to knowing Pepper—almost as if they were fond friends. Before the Blip, they had barely even met, as far as he knew. How much _had _he missed in the five years he was gone? His eyes jumped back to Happy and May's hands in the front seat.

Yeah, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the whole answer to that, actually.

Though fate, as per the usual, had different plans because it would be at least a couple of hours before they reached Pepper's newly constructed headquarters in Boston. Peter settled deeper into his seat, still favoring his wounded wrist and ribs. The low, regular buzz of the engine soon lulled him back into much-needed slumber.

* * *

Pepper's new office was pristine.

Peter hadn't honestly expected anything less, of course, but this was, like, next-level pristine. And things were extraordinarily white—so white that it kind of made his eyes ache just looking around the room. White desk, white walls, white floor, white couch, white metal chair, white—

"Pete, you good?"

Peter's focus snapped back, and he found himself looking at May in the UltraWhite™ couch adjacent to him. She was staring at him with one eyebrow raised. Happy, beside her, was giving him roughly the same look. Peter cleared his throat and adjusted his position in the seat.

"Uh, yeah. Good. I'm good. Just…there's a lot of white in here."

May laughed, and Peter flashed her a somewhat embarrassed grin.

"Yes, there is. We should probably take some tips, huh?"

Peter nodded, but his mind was already wandering again. This time, it was venturing beyond the sterility of the white office and even beyond the sprawling city view afforded by the office window to his right. It was traveling back to Queens, back to Jameson and his school. He still hadn't bothered trying to reply to the tsunami of texts and emails he had received not long after the initial broadcast—literally dozens of which were from an indignant Flash. And he was completely baffled by the fact that it had only been about a day since everything had happened. Time was weird—even when it wasn't tangled up in quantum mechanics.

"Good morning!"

Peter jumped at the voice and twisted around to see Pepper entering from the door on his left. The first thing he noticed was that she was wearing all white, from her head to her toes. The second thing he noticed was how May got to her feet and immediately pulled ever-composed Pepper into a tight hug. Happy stood, and Peter followed suit, assuming an abstracted smile he hoped looked polite and pleasantly interested.

"It's so good to see you again, Pepper!" May was saying as they made their way to Pepper's desk and the chairs arranged in front of it.

Pepper smiled and returned the nicety, taking a seat behind her desk, running her eyes over the other occupants of the room. Her gaze fell on Peter and visibly softened so much that he felt some heat creep into his cheeks. She leaned forward and crossed her arms in front of her on the desk.

"Hello, Peter," she said quietly.

Peter regained his dignity and sat up again. This was Pepper, after all. She had seen him at some of his most sleep-deprived, giddy, caffeine-hyped moments when working with Ton—Mr. Stark—in the tech lab. He wasn't sure why he felt so small and young in front of her now.

"Hey, Mrs. Potts. Thank you for seeing us so early."

Pepper smiled, probably in part at his 'Mrs. Potts', and leaned back again.

"I wouldn't exactly call it early," she said. "But you're welcome nonetheless. I only wish we could have visited under different circumstances."

Happy snorted, and Peter nodded. Pepper's expression morphed back into its usual business-like sophistication. She blew out a breath.

"Ok. I guess we need to get started on some problem-solving, then. Ned and Michelle should be here any minute now—"

"Their parents actually agreed to let them come all the way to Boston?" Peter asked, eyebrows up.

"Yes and no. Their parents came, too."

Peter blinked. He should have seen that coming, but everything seemed to be a surprise lately. And now there was a thread of anxiety twisting around in his gut; how would MJ's parents react to the kid responsible for putting their daughter in so much danger? He almost felt like Ned's parents would be a little more cool with it, but then again, who knew? Pepper continued.

"I think it probably took some persuasion from both sides, but this situation is far from being safe for anyone involved, especially, of course, to those closest to you. But you know that already."

Of course Peter knew that already. It had been forcing itself to the forefront of his mind since everything had first gone down. And it was his fault because he really, really should have known that Beck had more up his sleeve. The man's entire image and actions had been built on lies and conning, deception and trickery. But Beck hadn't been stupid either—he'd probably had some kind of contingency plan in the works since he first realized Peter was on to him.

Peter allowed himself to breathe again following this line of thought, and the anger smoldering in his chest faded into a more familiar ache of sadness. He tuned back into the conversation.

"—Tony definitely put up firewalls around your personal information and that of your friends. The fact that they were broken down so quickly, if Happy's report is correct, might indicate that whoever did so had inside information."

Peter hadn't thought about that yet, but it made sense. And it made him sick. If it was someone who had been close to Mr. Stark or to SI or the Avengers, then that meant some betrayal had gone on. It also meant that whoever this traitor was, they were probably still out there. How else would they use the information available to them? And what information _was _available to them?

"But then again," Happy grunted suddenly. "Peter's information, regardless of anything Tony had set up, wasn't ever that secure. It was in the school system and probably a dozen other places besides. Someone could have dug it up from one of those outlets pretty easily even with any limited safeguards Tony had up."

Pepper nodded.

"That is a possibility. But either way, it's concerning, and not something we can afford to take lightly if you have any dangerous enemies, Peter."

Peter swallowed. He could think of a few people who would fit that description.

They were all spared further reflection on that grim thought, however, by the arrival of Ned and MJ (where were their parents?).. One of the SI employees opened the door and admitted one ruffled, goggle-eyed Ned and a dark, aloof MJ. Pepper rose to meet them, ever the gracious host.

"Welcome, Ned, Michelle—"

"MJ, please."

The room was silent for a beat as MJ's cat-like gaze zeroed in each on Pepper's face, and then Pepper was smiling, more genuinely, it seemed, than before. MJ was, too, and Peter let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He'd never really thought about what a first meeting between MJ and Pepper would look like, and he was quite frankly grateful that he hadn't. His mind probably could have come up with much worse outcomes than this.

Pepper gestured to the two other empty seats in the room—always the perfect number—and both of Peter's friends obliged, with Ned giving Peter an excited little wave and mouthing, _it's so clean_.

When everyone had settled and politely declined Pepper's offer of coffee or water, she settled back into her chair and faced them all somberly.

"I suppose we should start and figure this out as soon as possible. Before I begin my rant, however, is there anything anyone would like to say in regards to this situation?"

Ned, who was sitting on Peter's left side, leaned over and whispered.

"_Bad***."_

Peter grinned and was about to mention something about how she was so much cooler when she put her foot down with Tony, but Pepper had obviously overheard Ned and he wasn't about to make things more awkward than they needed to be.

MJ had raised her hand, though, and now Pepper nodded towards her.

"Can Peter get a medical exam first?"

Peter turned to look at her, mouth falling open of its own accord. MJ turned her gaze coolly to him, the barest tilt of her head a simultaneous challenge and reprimand. Now everyone was looking at him, and he had been caught with his guard way, way down.

"…What?" he squeaked.

May gave MJ a weird look and then turned to look at Peter, eyebrows up.

"Peter, honey, are you OK?"

Peter nodded his head and looked pointedly at MJ. How the heck she knew he had been hurt was beyond him, but it was a tad annoying. He had felt so much worse in the past; he could actually rotate his wrist without searing pain now, FEI (For Everyone's Information).

"I'm fine. I swear. I told you that last night, right, May?"

May paused before nodding slowly. MJ snorted.

"Oh, come on, guys. Do any of you know, Peter? He'll never admit he's hurt, and obviously he is. Just look at how he's slouching. And he's been rubbing that wrist since I came in."

MJ shrugged, and there was a collective blink as everyone processed this. Peter frowned at his hands—the traitors—and tried to straighten up despite the nagging ache that bled across his side as he did so. He _did_ admit when he was hurt. Sometimes. And besides, there were much more important things to discuss at the moment.

Surprisingly, it was Happy who broke through the awkwardness and stood, taking matters into his own hands.

"I knew there was something off with you, kid. Come on, we're heading to the in-house clinic."

Happy didn't bother giving Peter an option, and the last thing he got a glimpse of as he was marched unwillingly out the door was a shared smirk between MJ and Pepper. Ned stared sympathetically after him, and May tagged along—most likely to berate him for not telling her all the details of his encounter with Shocker last night.

Talk about everything being a surprise lately. He was pretty sure MJ and Pepper could rule the world if they really wanted to, and he sure wouldn't want to be the person trying to stand up to them.

* * *

It was a good half hour before Peter, Happy, and May finally made their way back to the office floor.

Peter's ribs were bandaged—"I've had cracked ribs before, May, and they healed in, like a literal day!"—his wrist was put into a brace that Peter knew would be off within the next twelve hours, and May was now standing beside him with pursed lips and her own personal bubble of smoldering anger. Needless to say, the elevator ride back up to the top of Pepper's SI skyscraper was tense, and Peter was glad when they stepped off and could hear the snatches of laughter drifting from the open doorway.

They entered the office to find only Pepper and Ned inside. Peter scrunched his nose at his friend, and Ned nodded sagely. He understood.

"I trust the SI physician treated you well?" Pepper said.

"Yeah, thanks." He lifted his wrist. "Gonna be good as new in no time."

He could practically feel the anger radiating off May behind him.

"Good."

There was yet _another _moment of awkward silence before Pepper cleared her throat, rifled through some papers unnecessarily, and then looked at Ned and Happy in turn.

"May I have a moment with the Parkers in private, please?"

Ned cast a sidelong glance at Peter before shrugging and making his way to the door— patting Peter's shoulder on the way in either comfort or farewell. Peter wasn't sure he wanted to know which one it was. Happy seemed uncharacteristically torn for a few moments before he, too, stood and moved out. His querying gaze remained on May long enough to make Peter uncomfortable again before he was gone as well.

The door shut with a quiet click, and then it was just the three of them. Pepper dropped into her seat for what had to be the millionth time and rested her forehead against her clasped hands. She stared at her laps for a few heavy seconds as Peter and May mechanically made their way to their seats and sat down again.

When she looked back up, she seemed as if she were carrying one of the heaviest burdens in the world. Peter thought she looked a lot older in that moment, and it reminded him of how she had seemed at the funeral months before: regal, poised, and tired in ways that couldn't be fixed with mere sleep.

"I'm going to be honest, you two. This whole thing has thrown me for a loop. The fact that Quentin Beck used B.A.R.F—a piece recognized as SI tech—is going to come out and cause a maelstrom of dirty press as it is. But the revelation of Peter's identity…that's an entirely different problem, and unfortunately it's not one that's going to be solved by simple PR."

Peter swallowed. His palms were sweaty. Was it warm in here…or was that still just May's anger? And also, did the sun go behind the clouds or something because it didn't seem as white in here but maybe the building had some kind of tinted window technology or—

"Peter, I need you to be completely open with me: how dangerous is the biggest enemy you've made as Spiderman?"

Peter shifted his seat, trying to avoid the look May was giving him. He rubbed his palms on his jeans and tried to think but realized that his thoughts were so fragmented he could barely form anything coherent. He licked his lips.

"Uh, pretty dangerous? I mean, maybe. I haven't had any, like, Avengers-level bad guys to deal with b—but I have met some pretty crazy guys. There's a few gang bosses who could get, um, violent and stuff. I handled them, obviously, but I did get hurt…more than a few…times."

He knew he had been rambling, but the fact was that this would be entirely easier if May was out of the room and he didn't have to worry about saying something that would trip her May-sense and cause her to freak out. Which would cause him to freak out. Which he didn't need with his ribs in the shape they were and given that he had been freaking out entirely too much lately.

Pepper sighed.

"Do they have the power and numbers to find and destroy the apartment, Peter? Or to do the same to your friends?"

Peter swallowed again. He almost wished he had accepted her offer of water way back when.

"Yes?"

He knew it came out uncertain, but he also knew that Pepper and May well understood what was saying. He lived in New York, for crying out loud! Of course he had met some raunchy characters—and gotten on their bad side more than a few times. The threat posted on his door had made it clear that there were at least a few people willing to do whatever it took to get Spiderman off the streets.

If he had known, Peter thought, that being Spiderman would come with so many strings attached and would get so _personal_, he might have never decided to stick with it.

Though he couldn't help but remember Ben's words in light of that thought, as always, and that stung. Ben had no idea what Peter would become and what he would do—if he had, would he still have said what he did? He realized too late that Pepper had asked him a question and was leaning forward, expectant, awaiting a response.

"Uh, sorry, what was that?"

"I asked you if you had any ideas about what we can do to mitigate these threats."

Peter glanced over at May, who was staring straight ahead through glazed eyes, deep in thought. He looked back at Pepper and, knowing there was no way his shot brain could come up with anything intelligent, decided to be frank.

"No, ma'am."

Pepper nodded.

"Alright. I have some options that I would like you both to consider carefully. May, Peter, know that I present this to you based on a lot of forethought and experience." Pepper smiled wryly, and Peter knew she was thinking about her late husband's experience with identity revelations. "I'm going to start with the one I think has the most potential."

There was a pause before Pepper cleared her throat and began again.

"Both of you move out to live with Clint Barton and his family on their farm in Missouri. Temporarily, of course. Long enough for things to settle down here, for me to work on scrubbing some data, securing your friends and close contacts."

Peter swallowed and looked at May, panic blossoming in his chest. He found with no small amount of dread that she seemed to have livened up at the suggestion and was now leaning forward, listening closely to whatever Pepper was going to say next.

"Clint Barton," she said when Pepper seemed to be waiting for a reply. "I know that name. Who is that again?"

Peter looked at her incredulously.

"May! That's Hawkeye—you know, one of the Avengers!"

Peppers saw the drop in May's expression and added her own amendment to Peter's fanboy exclamation.

"The farm was bought and built specifically to keep Clint's family safe throughout his career and beyond. As you well know, he made a lot of powerful enemies, but they never got close to finding out about the Farm. The other Avengers didn't even know until later on down the road. Nick Fury had a hand in all of it, and, to my knowledge, he still keeps close tabs on the place."

There was silence as each of them thought about this. Peter knew what he wanted: to stay here. Even if it was dangerous, there had to be another option, another way out of this mess that didn't involve him leaving before his senior year of high school. That didn't include leaving Ned. And MJ. That didn't include breaking away from the only home he knew and ever wanted to know.

But it wasn't completely his choice, and it shouldn't be, not with everything May had at stake, too. So, when May looked up from her lap and said, "Can Peter and I talk this over in private for a moment, please?" Peter found himself more willing to hear her out than he might have been even a year ago (or six, if you counted the Blip).

Pepper smiled gently.

"Of course. And please remember there are other options to consider."

May nodded.

Pepper left.

And then she and Peter began to talk.

* * *

**A/N: Wow. OK. So, I've been working on this on and off all week and let me just say...this one was hard to grind out. I'm still not satisfied-not by a long shot-but it should serve its purpose and probably will undergo some light revision in the future. BUT...they should actually get to the farm in the next chapter. Should. Thanks so much for sticking with me, please bear with the slow parts in preparation for the farm shenanigans to come, and thanks so much for stopping by! You're awesome. :)**

**Next chapter should be next week...until then! **

**(Also...please anyone tell me if Happy reminds you of Anthony from the TV show Blue Bloods. I know y'all might not watch that, but I swear every time I tried to write Happy I was seeing Anthony's face and it was throwing me off. XD)**

**EDIT: Thanks to Bonzenz for bringing the extremely annoying text problems to my attention! My Microsoft Word Processor had some issues last night when I was editing and had superimposed pieces of an older version of the text on top of the new edits I was making. Whoops. Sorry, I thought I had fixed it. If there are anymore that I missed fixing, please tell me! Thanks!**


	5. This Ain't Queens Anymore

They were all going to spend the night at the headquarters.

There seemed to be a lot of that—and take-out, which they were also waiting on for tonight—going on lately. Peter followed behind Ned, MJ, Ned's parents, and MJ's dad as a member of Pepper's onsite staff escorted them to the more personal wing of the building, where some bedrooms had been set up, presumably for cases like this one.

Peter couldn't help but slouch a little as they walked down the sterile hallways, breaking the silence only occasionally with a murmur or a few quiet observations. The deal he had made with May seemed too heavy for him to shoulder with anything like goodwill—or even resignation, for that matter. It wasn't until their escort had unlocked their three respective rooms and retreated back the way he had come that Peter was able to get the privacy he wanted to revel in his displeasure with the whole thing.

He promptly flopped himself onto the suspiciously-hotel-like bed and let out a groan of frustration. The pillow absorbed it like a sponge, leaving him feeling no better for its release.

He laid there for maybe five minutes before there was a soft knock on the door.

He lifted his head wearily and looked at the door over his shoulder.

"Mm-hm?"

"Let me in."

Peter resisted the urge to groan again. Definitely MJ. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her; it was just that…well. He didn't feel much like interacting with _anyone _right now, and he didn't particularly like the idea of her seeing him being sorry for himself either. Some things felt more satisfying when you were alone.

But he found himself telling her the door was unlocked anyway.

She opened it with surprising grace and closed it behind her without a single sound. She stood there in the doorway for a second, face neutral, looking at him sprawled unceremoniously out on the bed, and then she allowed herself a smirk.

"You look like a little kid, you know."

Peter smushed his face into the comforter.

"Gee, thanks."

He heard her moving towards the bed and couldn't help the fact that his heart began to beat faster just because she was close. That feeling never went away, no matter how much time he spent around her. The other side of the bed dipped in as she sat down, and then Peter felt her prod at his arm.

"Scoot over."

Peter tucked his limbs to his sides and moved over until he was on the cusp of falling off the bed and then flipped onto his back for good measure. He tried not to act too weird or surprised when MJ laid back beside him and folded her hands across her stomach. He swallowed.

"So…am I officially invited to the pity-party or what?"

Peter looked over at her, but she didn't bother returning the favor. The white ceiling was more interesting than his wounded-puppy eyes, apparently.

"I decided to…celebrate solo this year."

That elicited a snort. She looked over at him now.

"You can't do any better than that, can you?"

Peter held eye contact for a moment before giving up and throwing a forearm across his face. He let out the grunt of frustration he had been holding onto.

"I just don't get it, MJ," he said. "It's like the universe doesn't want us to get a break."

MJ didn't reply for a little bit, but he could feel the vibrations of her breathing shallowly beside him, could hear the low _tha-dump tha-dump_ of her heart in her chest. He knew she was probably wrestling with her words—trying to craft the perfect, hard-hitting response that would leave him feeling miffed but maybe a little better just because it was coming from _her_. Instead, she shifted slightly and just said a single word:

"Yeah."

He wasn't sure what to do with that, so they laid there in even more silence, practically swimming in an atmosphere that was equal parts awkwardness and anxiety. MJ, of course, broke through next.

"So…what are you going to do?"

Peter sighed.

"May and I are…moving. Just for a little while, I hope, out to a farm in Missouri. It's gonna be far away and remote and all that jazz. I think Pepper wants to buy some time."

"I bet that sucks."

"Yeah, it does."

"That's it. You're just...moving."

Peter swallowed, sighed. No, not just moving. The deal with May was more than that-deeper than that. They were going out there to _heal_, she had said. He just wasn't sure what that was going to look like or if it could even be possible in such a foreign place, so removed from friends and family. But then again..._May_.

Instead of saying that, though, Peter just shrugged his shoulders and made a humming noise in the back of his throat. A dismissal because as much as he wanted to talk and as much as MJ would probably sit there and listen because she was just that amazing-now didn't feel like the time.

MJ shifted again, and this time he could tell she had propped up on one elbow so she could talk to him face to face. Reluctantly, he pulled his arm down and looked into her earnest gaze. She raised an eyebrow.

"What?" he asked.

"What about us? Your friends? School? Spiderman?"

Peter resisted the urge to let out another groan of frustration—_again —_and to scrub at his face until the headache that had taken up residence behind his eyes fled.

"I don't know. School, I think, is going to be worked out online or something. Spiderman is, uh, over for now, I guess. Seems like everything is working against him anyway."

"You make him sound like he's completely separate from you."

Peter huffed and sat up so quickly his vision swayed into darkness for a second.

"Yeah, well, I thought he could be! Sometimes I liked just being normal. I didn't think that would be too much to ask, after...after everything."

The words were sharper than he had intended, and they felt bitter on his tongue as he spoke, but he plowed on regardless.

"I've almost died—several times—and I'm technically not even a senior yet! Not to mention I've got you and May and Ned and, and everyone else to worry about. Sometimes I feel like…like—"

He stopped, and his face assumed what could only be a very funny expression as his mind raced ahead of his words. He looked back at MJ.

"Like?" she prompted.

"Like it would have been better if I had never become Spiderman in the first place," he finished, quieter than before. And when he said it, the heaviness that had been momentarily relieved by his anger a few seconds before returned in full force. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent down over them, hands laced, head bowed.

"Well, that got depressing real quick, but it's not like fate ever asked you what you thought anyway," MJ said dryly, but she had sat up, too, and a moment later she had settled on the edge of the bed beside him, a relatively comfortable distance apart—just close enough that her bare foot touched his if she swung it a little bit.

"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly after a moment of reflecting. She was probably dealing with her own confusion and frustration over the whole ordeal, and it wasn't his place or right to unload his problems on her anyway. She deserved better than that. MJ, apparently, had different thoughts, though, because she punched his arm after he spoke.

"Shut up, and stop apologizing for being a human being, Peter."

Peter shook his head and looked at her.

"But I haven't even really asked how you're doing." He frowned, thinking back to the blur that had been the period of time between their trip to Europe and now. Before Europe and right after the Blip, he hadn't been comfortable enough asking her about how she was dealing with missing five years—he didn't even know her family situation now _or _then. He hadn't even thought about it much since they'd started…going out.

"How _are _you doing?" he asked.

He could tell she hadn't been expecting it, and she recoiled slightly before seeming to remember her composure.

"What do you mean? I'm not the one with a formerly secret identity."

"I mean, uh, how have things been since the, you know, Blip? I know I haven't really gotten to talk to you about it, and I saw who I guess was your dad on the way here and, um, are you—"

MJ held up a hand, halting Peter's rush of words. She zeroed in on him with that piercing gaze of hers.

"Well, besides my mom remarrying to some rich guy from the Bahamas and my cat turning into a feral monster who lives on dumpster scraps while Dad and I were dusted, I'm not bad. Thanks."

Peter swallowed.

"Uh…sorry. I—I didn't know."

MJ tilted her head at him, appraising, and then the ferocity of her gaze died away as she dropped it to her lap.

"Yeah, well, I didn't want you to. So you didn't. Don't beat yourself up too much."

They sat there for a few moments, lost in a swirl of thoughts and half-formed words, before Peter sucked in a breath, straightened, and steeled himself. He reached over and laid his hand over hers. She stiffened for a microsecond first as if by course of habit, but then she relaxed and willingly pulled herself closer to his side so she could rest her head on his shoulder. Peter didn't want to breathe too hard in case he had bad breath or he would ruin the moment or something, but he pushed back the awkwardness and focused on simply her presence.

Why was it suddenly so hard being around her again? He'd thought they'd gotten past that.

"I guess…maybe we could just focus on the good things about all of this…" he ventured after a moment. He was afraid that maybe he had said something wrong when she didn't answer right away, but then she did, and her voice was soft.

"Ok."

Peter cleared his throat.

"We get to stay in these cool headquarters. Your cat is still alive and, uh, obviously pretty tough. We're almost ready to graduate, so then we could do whatever whenever—maybe. I don't have to worry about hiding my identity anymore, which _was _pretty stressful—"

"You get to learn how to steal eggs from already-abused hens and violently pump a mother cow's milk out of her body."

Peter laughed and pushed MJ away playfully.

"Hey! I said good things! Those are just morbid..."

MJ shrugged, seemingly back to her old self, the traces of sadness that had been lingering in her expression pretty much gone.

"I'm just saying. Inhumane farm practices are rampant in America. And those eggs _could _be fertilized."

Peter wrinkled his nose at her.

"I'm sure the Bartons are pretty nice to their animals. Probably."

MJ smirked at him, and Peter knew in that moment that things were going to be fine. They had to be because him and MJ were going to have a lot more weird conversations like this, and he _did _have so many good things to look forward to and appreciate. It really was hard, and things still weren't fair, but when had that stopped him?

When had they stopped _her_?

He didn't know what all her story was or what her home-life had been like, but he knew there was a lot he was going to get to learn about her in the future—and it probably wasn't going to be all good stuff. The odds were never fair. He just had to learn how to roll with punches and keep going—side by side with his friends and family because they were truly the best in the world.

But even as his mind formed these thoughts, there was a niggling doubt trickling in.

What if this was the final blow?

He'd lost Uncle Ben and Mr. Stark—

Had his secret identity and reputation attacked—

He'd thought he could protect them or at the least be protected _by _them—

But one by one his supports had been ripped away—

So the question was always going to be there, gnawing at him—

What was going to be next?

* * *

"How did she even get your parents to come?" Peter whispered to Ned.

They were standing near the doorway, watching Ned's mom and dad talk animatedly with Pepper about something. Ned shook his head solemnly.

"Never underestimate the power of parental love," he said dreamily.

Peter shot him a look. Remnants of he and Betty's strange shared philosophy following Europe still surfaced every now and then in the things Ned said. He tried not to think too hard about it.

"I guess we shouldn't complain, really. What has she told you all about what's going to happen?" Peter said after a moment. He crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and looked at his friend. Ned shrugged.

"She just said some stuff about clearing out our connections with you and about having some security protocols set up—online and physical." Ned's eyes lit up. "She even said I could help with some of the programming and technical work. She's pretty cool."

Peter nodded and turned his attention back to Ned's parents. His mom was a bustling woman who seemed like she could just as easily dish you up an enormous portion of homemade lasagna as she could beat your behind for messing with her kid. His dad looked more laid back, but the way he listened with rapt attention to whatever juicy details Pepper was giving them on…whatever it was they were talking about made Peter think he was, at heart, just as much of a geeky fanboy as his son.

Peter's gaze strayed to MJ, looking out the window onto the city below, and then to her dad in a chair nearby, scowling as he tapped on his phone. Her dad was a dark, austere man whose gaze he could feel every now and then as it flitted about the room, always lingering a moment too long on Peter to avoid the boy's attention completely.

Peter had shaken the man's hand earlier and apologized for the mess he had gotten his daughter in, but he hadn't reacted very strongly. He'd shrugged and muttered a few words about "troublemakers" and "getting their due" before he had turned abruptly away and dropped into the chair he currently occupied. Peter wasn't entirely sure if he was angry or just didn't care one way or another. He just hoped he wasn't another closet villain he'd have to get beaten up by next homecoming.

"I guess I'm gonna go see what's happening in the lobby," Peter said, giving Ned a knowing glance. May and Happy had left for the lobby after her and Peter's conversation, and he hadn't seen them since. Ned squinted and held up his fingers in an OK sign. As Peter turned to leave, though, he seemed to reconsider.

"You want me to come, too?"

Peter grinned. He had been hoping he would ask.

"Sure."

Peter and Ned made their way to the lobby, chit-chatting about whatever came to mind in the moment. The webslinger couldn't help but think about how much he was going to miss Ned while he was gone—though hopefully not for very long. He hoped to be back by mid-summer at the latest. Final exam-time would be even better, but that was only in a few weeks, and he couldn't see that happening with how much of a mess the situation already was.

His mind returned to his and May's conversation. He had to actively recall the way she had looked when she had pleaded with him to accept the offer to go to the farm—her eyes bright and hopeful but her posture tight and wary, waiting for him to reject it. He thought again of all she had to have endured while he had been gone—losing her husband and her nephew in such a short amount of time—and of all the lonely nights she had come back to the apartment to find it empty. He thought of how she had been there for him, of how he wouldn't be able to bear it if she even got _hurt _because of him—

Yeah, he was going for her.

He wouldn't consider any of this escapade a sacrifice if it meant May was happy and safe.

He and Ned reached the lobby, and Peter spotted May and Happy immediately. They were standing by the double doors, talking to someone else—

A small girl who had just come in with them, sparkly backpack around her tiny shoulders—

A girl who hugged Happy like a favorite uncle and grinned form ear to ear at May—

A little girl with eyes just like Tony Stark's—

Morgan—

Tony's daughter.

Before he knew it, Peter was turning back the way he had come. He was breathing harder than before, and once again the sheer whiteness of the place was getting to his head and he could hear the ever-present buzz of electricity that came with being in living, breathing buildings and he didn't want anyone to see that he was freaking out but—

"Hey, Peter! Over here!"

Peter's stomach plummeted, but he turned anyway towards May's excited voice. He forced his expression into a more neutral set and glanced over at Ned, who seemed to have noticed Peter's mini panic attack and was looking at him with mild concern. Peter shook his head ever so subtly.

_Don't let them know_.

The pair walked to Ned and Happy slowly, Peter all the while trying to calm his breathing and heart rate, looking everywhere but the curious face of the little girl on Happy's hip.

"Hiya," Morgan said as soon as they were in earshot.

Peter fought against his dry mouth with a swallow and offered her a wavering smile, still trying to avoid complete eye contact.

"Hey."

"We were just talking about you two," May said, grinning at Ned and Peter. She didn't seem to notice that anything was up, which reassured Peter. He straightened and managed to get a good look at Morgan. He had only seen her once in person…at the funeral. He had been too preoccupied with trying not to sob in front of everyone, so he hadn't really been able to spare much more than a dim mental registration of her presence at the time.

"Yeah, how is Pepper holding up with the parents up there?" Happy asked.

Ned shook his head, and Peter was grateful that his friend was there to answer so he didn't have to fight to keep his voice steady.

"Seriously? She's, like, one of the most savage women _ever_. In the best way. It's my parents and MJ's dad that need to be worried about how they're holding up against _her_."

May laughed.

"You got that right."

Peter had finally regained control of himself and was beginning to wonder why, exactly, the sight of Mr. Stark's daughter had made him almost lose it when a sudden movement from the little girl snagged his peripheral vision. She had narrowed her eyes at him and was now wriggling out of Happy's grip.

"Hold on a sec," she muttered, pushing against the man's arm. Happy frowned and put her down. She immediately marched within two feet of Peter and placed her hands on her hips. She stared at him from under heavy eyebrows, head cocked, making him feel both uncomfortable and also mildly impressed.

She was already the queen of sass—he could tell.

"I know you."

Peter blinked at the five year-old, and she grinned.

"You're daddy's friend when I wasn't alive yet."

Peter sensed the shift in everyone's mood at the comment, and he could tell they were all waiting to make sure that he was OK, that he wasn't going to get all mopey or panicky or whatever. He forced his voice to cooperate and knelt down in front of her, going for the only thing that had come into his head. He stuck his hand out towards her.

"Yep, I am. My name's Peter. Nice to meet you."

Morgan regarded it for a second before giggling and shyly—despite her earlier boldness—placing her hand delicately in his. They sat there for a second, Peter's mind still trying to wrap itself around the fact that this child before him was _Tony Freaking Stark's _and so much a part of him—

Then Morgan leaned in conspiratorially, a quirk in her eyebrows. She whispered, very seriously, very loudly.

"You're supposed to kiss a lady's hand. Like knights do."

Peter laughed before he knew he was and gently placed a kiss on the back of her hand. She brightened up, and just as quickly he felt the tension in May and Happy and Ned drain away. He was fine. They were fine. This was completely fine.

Right?

"Good. I'm Morgan. Do you want to play with me?"

Peter stood up again and looked at Happy and May for confirmation. Happy shrugged.

"Food should be here soon. I don't see Pepper being opposed to it. How about you go see your mom first, huh, Morgan? Peter'll still be here when you're done."

Morgan stuck her lip out in a tiny pout but nodded and did as she was told, running straight to the elevator with a long backwards look at Peter.

"Stay right there, P—Peter! I'm gonna go wash my hands and see Momma and get my toys out!"

Peter waved at her in response, and her sunny smile was the last thing he saw before the she rounded a corner and disappeared from his view of the hallway. He turned to the others…and found May beaming at him, one hand resting on Happy's arm. He tried to keep his eyes off of that because even though he was beginning to accept it all some more—bleh. It was still so weird.

"What?"

"Didn't know you were such a whiz with kids, Pete," Happy said. Ned punched him in the shoulder.

"Mmhm. You should totally be a babysitter or something."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know you were either, Happy."

Happy grunted, but Peter noticed before he turned away that there was still that same warmth shining in his eyes as when he had been holding Morgan. As much as he hated to admit it, Happy really did fit the role of Favorite Uncle when it came to Morgan—and he hadn't even seen them together that often.

"OK. I'm starving. When's supper?"

May grinned and linked her arm through Peter's. She reached up and ruffled his hair despite his brief, half-hearted protest.

"Soon enough. I promise you'll live," she said.

He snorted a laugh, but his mind had already returned to little Morgan. Morgan, who was so small and innocent and soft. Morgan, whom he knew was the brightest light in Pepper's life right now and who had been the brightest in Mr. Stark's. Morgan, whose eyes were _just like _her father's and whose life was destined to carry on without that father.

He wasn't sure how he felt about all of it.

* * *

Peter didn't sleep all night.

And it wasn't just the super spicy Indian takeout Pepper had insisted on ordering for everyone to try, either (though admittedly that might have had _something _to do with it). His agreement with May was running through his mind on loop, alternating occasionally with snatches of his conversation with MJ or snapshots of his time "playing" with Morgan before dinner.

It had mostly been her talking to him about her latest escapades and her deepest secrets (which included but were not limited to climbing the big tree outside the building and disassembling the remote to see if she could make it control Happy instead of just the TV). She had also insisted on giving him a tour of the entire building, complete with sidenotes on where the best hide-and-seek places were and where you could go so that you could hear what Pepper was saying on the phone without Pepper even knowing she was listening.

Needless to say, Peter came away from the experience impressed and frightened. She was clever all right, and devious as heck. Pepper definitely had her hands full—though he was as confident as Ned that the woman would have no trouble handling her in the end.

But anyway.

Despite his bone-ache exhaustion, he couldn't sleep. So, when morning finally broke clean, he was already up and ready to head back to the apartment so they could pack up their things. The plan was for all of them to return to New York City today. Ned and his parents would go back to their house with with an SI employee to set up some precautionary security measures. MJ and her dad would do the same. Meanwhile, Peter and May would pack what they wanted and prepare to be picked up by Happy, who was taking them to one of SI's private airports not far outside the city. From there, it was on to Missouri and the country life.

He tried not to think very much about what was ahead as he packed up and helped May decide what they should and shouldn't bring—he was sure he'd have plenty of time to do that on the plane. Instead, he let the mechanics of his work numb his mind, and after what seemed only an hour or two, it was time.

Peter scanned the street as he stepped outside, more than happy that there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary going on. No reporters. No bad guys. No curious bystanders. Just sweet, sweet emptiness and the city he had grown up in all of his life.

Ned and his family, along with MJ, were standing on the sidewalk, helping load Happy's familiar black car when they could. The lump that had been slowly swelling in Peter's throat began to ache. He walked to where Ned was and sighed.

"I guess, uh, it's time to go, so…I—"

Ned leaned forward and hugged him, hard. The lump got just a bit bigger.

"See you soon, Peter. Don't die or anything. And send me back some homemade bread or a crocheted blanket when you get a chance."

Peter laughed, but now there were tears in his eyes and it just didn't feel right. This _wasn't _right. And it wasn't fair. He wanted to be here, with his friends. And who knew if whoever wanted Spiderman gone wouldn't try to hurt his friends anyway? Wasn't leaving just giving him what they wanted?

As if he could read his mind, Ned withdrew, sniffed. He put a heavy hand on Peter's shoulder.

"We're going to be fine. Just…get back soon, OK?"

Peter just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and then turned to Ned's parents. He hadn't gotten to know them too well during the years he and Ned had been friends, but he'd interacted with them enough to know there would be no ill will between them. They were probably just as relieved as he was that there were steps being taken to protect Ned.

"See you later, Mr. and Mrs. Leeds. Thanks for being so understanding in this whole thing."

He knew it was lame, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. And he figured that even if they didn't get it now, Ned would make sure they understood it later on. To his relief, both of them nodded and smiled.

"Don't worry about it, son. Be safe, and we'll make sure to keep in touch."

_Curse this throat-lump_, Peter thought.

And then he was standing in front of MJ.

She hugged him before he could even get a stuttered word out, and he hugged her back just as fiercely—after a few seconds of trying to regain his composure. Why did this seem so hard? He wasn't leaving for long, right? He'd be back soon—

"Don't do anything stupid, dork," she whispered. Peter pulled away before he starting leak tears or, worse, _snot _into her hair (which smelled amazing, by the way), and then he smiled.

"I'll try."

She nodded. They stared at each other for a moment, Peter trying to commit every detail of her face to memory, and then she leaned forward and kissed him. In front of everyone. That dried up his tears in a flush of embarrassment, but it was over too quickly. She turned and walked down the street, and he was torn between calling her back and running after her, but in a flash he understood. He'd never seen MJ cry before-panic, yeah. But never cry. He guessed this wasn't the time she wanted to change that, and he had to admit he understood completely.

Granted, things might have to change in the future, but for now—

"Come on, Pete. Time to go."

Peter wiped at his face one last time before turning to see May by the car, her eyes and expression soft. She smiled encouragingly. Peter waved one last time at Ned, spared another glance at MJ's retreating back, and then climbed in.

At some point between the time he got in and they pulled out of the driveway, he started crying for real. But neither May nor Happy said anything, and that was fine with him. The road, his friends, his home, and his city blurred away in a veil of tears and speed as they pulled away, and Peter rested his head against the dark window. He closed his eyes.

This was the heaviest he had felt yet, and the doubt that had been nothing but a vague idea before had blossomed into a formidable weight now.

Maybe it _was_ going to be a long time before he saw his friends again—

Maybe it wasn't worth it at all to become Spiderman—

Maybe this was all a sign that he should give it up, that he wasn't made for all of this—

Maybe Mr. Stark was right, when he said those things at the ferry so long ago—

Maybe he was nothing without the suit, but worse-

-maybe he was nothing even with it on.

* * *

The next thing he knew, Peter was being shaken out of his thoughts and dreams by a familiar voice and a firm hand.

"Peter! Peter! Get up…we're here!"

He cracked his eyes open slowly and was made instantly aware of the absence of the airplane's hum, of the stillness of the air around him, of a glowing May standing over him, shaking him awake. Groggily, he lifted himself out of his cramped position in the chair.

"Already?" he croaked.

May's smile became impossibly brighter. She was so excited, and it hurt to think that he shared pretty much none of her enthusiasm.

"It's been hours, sweetie. But we're here. We're safe."

Peter stood and grabbed the nearest bag. He walked onto the narrow platform just outside the plane doors and stood there for a moment, blinking, in the Missouri sunshine. Everything was so still…and very green.

It was so, so different.

The air smelled different—

The woods around him seemed more alive than any street he had ever walked on in New York—

The wind felt different as it filtered through the trees and brushed against his skin—

May came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What do you think?" she said quietly.

Peter waited, trying to soak in the details before him, and then his lips quirked up into a half-grin.

"May, I don't think we're in Queens anymore."

May giggled in that way only she could and then stepped past him, lugging a big bag beside her, still seeming so happy and so pure that Peter _almost _let his smirk morph into a full-out grin.

But by the time May set foot on the grass again, just like in the street following his battle with Shocker—

Peter felt very small and very alone.

* * *

**A/N: FINALLY, THEY'RE AT THE FARM! I REPEAT, THEY ARE AT THE FARM!**

**And OK, I know I should stop with the disclaimers, but this chapter did feel very rushed, and it's probably unrealistic considering something _shewritesit18 _pointed out in her kind review earlier (thanks so much for the feedback, by the way!) because city to farm IS a big step, BUT honestly, I just want them to be there already. I feel like I'm floundering and trying to write way over my head at this point, so please please bear with me and know you're awesome even if you can't. XD ;D**

**But yeah. The shenanigans and more angst should begin soon. Also...*rubs hands together evilly*, I may or may not have been doing some hoeing and gardenwork lately myself, so perhaps Peter shall, ah, experience its virtues soon.**

**Last few things (I like these author's notes, if you can't tell): I'm considering introducing an OC for plot purposes and such. What do you think? Are y'all going to feel up to that or should I hold on? Also, please leave a review and tell me what you want to see and, completely honestly, what you think of this so far. I really need the constructive criticism, and we all know how amazing reviews are on here. ;)**

**Thanks again for sticking with me, and please be safe. Know that whoever you are and wherever you're at, you are loved. Always. :)**


	6. ICMBDIs

Clint Barton—AKA Hawkeye, of the Avengers—owned a rumbling little pickup truck that was the color of dirty water.

Peter knew that because there he was, sitting casually inside the truck, feet propped up on the dashboard. He was parked off to the side of a dusty strip of road, which wound itself around and past the sunny clearing in which their airplane had landed. Peter swallowed and lurched into the last jarring step down from the plane, virtually all of his _and _May's luggage swinging from some part of him—though, to be fair, May did have a few bags she was struggling with.

Mr. Barton rolled down the window, which shuddered and shrieked throughout its entire descent. He poked his head out of the window and nodded once, a pair of sleek sunglasses shielding his eyes.

"Afternoon."

May waved excitedly from behind Peter.

"Hellooo!"

Peter tried not to cringe internally _too _much. After all, May had barely known who the guy was before all of...this. Nevermind the fact that he was, undoubtedly, the best archer to ever walk the earth and was also, at least formerly, practically one of Peter's coworkers and—

"Good afternoon, Mr. Barton," he said with a smile that felt as if it might actually be cracking his face.

He stepped through the grass—which admittedly felt dense and foreign under his feet—until he reached the truck, and behind them the plane growled and whirred as it came to life. Happy had said his goodbyes earlier, and he had seemed so anxious to return to whatever new responsibilities lay before him that Peter couldn't help but get the impression that the man wasn't keen on meeting up with Mr. Barton again. Regardless, while Peter didn't blame Happy for wanting to get back as soon as possible, he also couldn't help but feel the noose of the entire situation tighten around his throat just a little more as their ride left them stranded here.

"Mmhm. Bags can go in the bed," Mr. Barton said, jerking a thumb towards the back. Peter obliged, swinging the big suitcases into the bed with a solid _thunk_ and then peeling off the numerous other bags and satchels and packs May had thrown across him on the way out of the plane.

When he had finished, May squeezed his arm in passing and leaned in close.

"Isn't this exciting?!" she hissed, barely pausing for even an answering expression before she jumped into the cab beside Mr. Barton and tried to strike up a conversation.

Not that Peter really had much of a reply to give her.

If he was being honest, he was really just trying to hold his breath for as long as possible because his lungs were still full of the familiar interior of the plane, the faintest traces of Happy's cologne, the peculiar greasy smell of Queens that seemed so stale in comparison to the Missouri air. As soon as he released his breath, he knew those scents would dissipate, be replaced by everything that was unfamiliar and different and uncertain. He knew he would have to fully and inevitably face the fact that this really was happening, that he really was in Missouri, that his life really was taking this giant turn.

And he wanted to avoid that for as long as was (super)humanly possible.

* * *

May talked throughout the entire drive to the Bartons' house.

Granted, it only took five minutes, but in the warm and musty car, it felt like five _hours _to Peter. Mr. Barton didn't say much—he mostly grunted and nodded and alternated between sipping coffee out of a thermos and tapping distractedly on the steering wheel. So, as May did all of the talking, Peter sat quietly in the back and reluctantly attempted to keep his mind from wandering too far out of the realm of comfort by playing a game he had made up in the early days of his Spiderman career: use all of your senses except sight to figure out exactly what's going on around you (or, in his current situation, what this car's history was).

He used to play the game, which he had dubbed 'Spidey Says' on one particularly boring and sleep-deprived patrol, when there wasn't much going on in the city or when he was waiting to get The Text from Mr. Stark about an Avengers job. It had led to some pretty weird discoveries and less-than-pleasant smells and feelings in the past—really, he should have known better than to let his non-ocular senses interpret the grimy boroughs of New York for him. But then again, it had also led to some pretty neat things, like when he had found out there was a flower shop folded into a strip of shops literal blocks away from his house.

May had liked that, even if the flowers _were _wilted and sometimes smelled suspiciously like embalmer's fluid.

Regardless, Peter tried it out on the short drive back, attempting to get a better sense of what Mr. Barton's was going to be like. What Missouri was going to be like.

Unfortunately, he just smelled a lot of coffee, cut grass, what smelled like straight-up poop and probably was if Mr. Barton's farm was, like, an _actual _farm—

He felt dust and crumbs and maybe tiny shards of gravel underneath his palm, embedded into the fibers of the seat—

Since he hadn't actually eaten anything here yet, his sense of taste was a bit obsolete so he ignored it—

And then running through all of that, a current of soothing sensation, was the grumbling of the truck. Beyond, a hazy veil of wild sounds—birds chirping and scolding, grasshoppers and crickets singing in the fields that tumbled past the window, and the occasional bass hum that might have been a cow mooing.

Peter was beginning to get the impression that farm life was mostly composed of dirt, coffee, and bird-noise when the truck came to a stop. He opened his eyes, blinked momentarily at the bright light spiraling into his vision from the windows, and then he sighed. He got out of the truck and closed the door gently behind him.

"Welcome to the barnyard," Mr. Barton said, sliding out of the truck and stretching as if he had been riding for hours. May followed suit, gasping dramatically at the sight of the large white farmhouse they had pulled up in front of. For what seemed the first time he had done truly so, Mr. Barton turned to look at Peter.

"What do you think, Parker?"

Peter ran his eyes over the house, an aging, elegant structure with green shutters and a porch that loped softly around the front door. He noted the tall trees that bordered the house and a splash of color that was a fledgling flower garden, just beginning to bleed spring color.

"It's a nice house, sir. I, uh…thanks for letting us stay here."

Mr. Barton plucked off his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his flannel overshirt. He looked at Peter for no longer than a few seconds, and then he shrugged, hands dropping into his pockets.

"Yeah. Just watch out for Lucky."

Peter was about to ask who Lucky was, but in a flash he knew the answer. A large golden dog had come bounding out of the open door, pursued by dim shouts of, "Lucky, get back here!" Peter saw the dog heading straight for May, who had her tongue out as she tried to work her suitcase out from under the other luggage in the bed of the truck.

Without thinking, he sprinted forward and intercepted the dog right before it reached May. Propelled by momentum and whatever other emotion caused her to barrel out of the house, Lucky crashed into Peter with front paws out, and they both fell ungracefully into the grass. Most of Peter's breath left him in a sharp _oof_.

Peter spent the next few moments battling paws and face-licks and slobber before someone whistled sharply. Lucky retreated immediately, tearing off of Peter and racing towards the owner of the whistle, a boy around Peter's age who stood in the doorway of the house. He looked miffed as he stared the canine offender down.

"Lucky, I _told _you to stay off of our guests!" he scolded, reaching down and taking Lucky's muzzle between his hands. He stared into the dog's sheepish eyes until he seemed satisfied that she was adequately ashamed, and then he smiled as he released her. She shot off into the house like a furry bullet.

Meanwhile, Peter rose to his feet, none the worse for the wear, and dusted himself off. Lucky wasn't nearly as heavy as some things that had fallen on him—but the slobber was pretty gross. He looked at May, whose hands were cupped around her mouth and whose eyes betrayed far too easily just how amusing she found this all to be.

Peter grinned, and May burst into a laugh.

"Pete, I never knew you could run _that _fast…"

Her nephew rolled his eyes, but really he was just glad that May wasn't the one to be knocked down by the Bartons' definitely-friendly but also terrifyingly overzealous dog. He wondered how many more animals they had scattered around the farm and if they were all as excitable as Lucky…

"Sorry about that, guys," the boy who had called Lucky back said, coming forward and extending a hand to Peter. He tossed dark hair back from his forehead and smirked.

"I'm Cooper."

Peter rubbed his hand against his jeans again for good measure, remembering now that Pepper had said that Mr. Barton had three kids. Cooper was the oldest at…fifteen, maybe?

"Peter," he said. "Nice to meet you."

Cooper hummed like his dad seemed prone to doing and nodded at May.

"Need any help with your bags, Ms. Parker?"

May, who looked flustered but happy, a little red from the sun and laughter, glanced at Peter and smiled. It was the smile she had used on him ever since he was little—the smile that said she was going to do all the worrying that needed to be done for him. The smile that said he better not get upset because she had promised him things were going to turn out OK. And whatever else May Parker did, she didn't lie to her nephew.

It was something familiar, and Peter immediately felt himself relax.

"Sure thing, Coop. Just be careful. There's something funky clanking around in that one..."

The trio made their way to into the house, and despite all of his reasoning capabilities, Peter had the strange feeling that he was walking into the dark mouth of some kind of beast. The house smelled old, but only underneath a layer of what could only be the aroma of dinner cooking in the kitchen. Numerous windows and lamps provided enough light to clearly see the dark wood of the furniture, the neutral-toned walls of the living room, the dining room. A smattering of bright toys and beginner reader's books around the room told Peter that there was, indeed, a young child in the house. Peter was pretty sure his name was Nathan. Maybe Nathaniel?

He hadn't had the focus to listen too hard to Pepper when she was explaining the general layout of their temporary residence, and now he felt guilty for not getting _at least _the names.

Cooper held a hand up before they reached a set of wooden stairs, and he leaned towards the kitchen, which was currently occupied by a woman Peter assumed was Mr. Barton's wife—Laura—and their other two children, a young teenaged girl and the little boy.

"Mom! They're here!"

Peter straightened his shoulder and offered a tight-lipped smile as Laura Barton wiped her hands on a dish towel and grinned at her guests. She came towards them, leaving behind a pot of boiling water and smoking pan on the range.

"Welcome!" she said, her eyes warm as she took in both Parkers.

She leaned forward and hugged May as if they were old friends rather than virtual strangers, and then she gave Peter a more awkward side-hug in lieu of his load of baggage as she spoke.

"I apologize for Lucky and the general chaos in here," she laughed, eyes warm as she pulled out of her hug and glanced behind her, where her daughter was coming forward, Nathaniel holding her hand and sniffling behind her.

"But as you can see, dinner is a bit involved, and Nathaniel fell and busted his head about five minutes before you got here."

Peter winced in sympathy, but May leaned forward, instantly full of concern and compassion.

"Oh, no! Is he OK?" May asked, trying to smile reassuringly at the shy boy who clung to his sister's hand.

"Yes, of course. Just a tad klutzy," Laura replied eyeing her son mischievously. "I just wish I had had enough time to clean up…"

May nodded, and Peter looked again at the young boy, who was probably no older than six. There was a bandage over his forehead and tears still in his eyes.

"It's perfectly fine, really," May smiled back. "Honestly, I think we're just happy to be here in one piece ourselves. But what am I saying? Thank you so very much for taking us into your home…as you know, of course, I'm May, and this is Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barton, and, yes, thank you," Peter added lightly, his smile beginning to feel strained.

Laura waved one hand and rested the other one lightly on little Nathaniel's head, who had come up beside her and leaned against his mother. She stroked his hair as she continued.

"No, no. It's no problem. And call me Laura, both of you. I—"

At that moment, a smoke alarm began to blare, loud enough in the small space that Peter's ears began to ring and he had to resist the urge to drop the baggage and clamp his hands over them. With a gasp, the Bartons' daughter looked at her mother with wide eyes.

"The chicken!" she breathed, and then she cast a panicked glance at May and Peter.

"Sorry, I gotta go. I'm Lila, by the waynicetomeetyou…"

And then she was off. Laura wrinkled her nose and gave Cooper—who seemed impatient and fatigued under his own share of luggage—a look. She turned her attention back to the Parkers.

"Don't worry about it. We're gonna deal with this; y'all just get settled in your rooms, and we'll give you a tour of the farm when the situation is handled."

May nodded with an understanding look—Peter burned at least one part of pretty much every Mother's Day meal he ever tried to cook her—and Laura turned away, tugging a curious Nathaniel behind her.

Cooper jerked his head towards the stairs.

"OK. Your rooms are up there."

* * *

The smoke alarm cut off abruptly after only a few minutes, and Cooper left him and May to choose between themselves which room they wanted.

There were two at the end of the hallway, one on each side of a shuttered window overlooking a storage shed to the right of the Bartons' front yard. One of the rooms was papered in pale blue flowers and had a giant window that peered directly out over the front yard. The other had walls that were a creamy yellow and adorned with stylistic sketches of rusty red and green roosters—it was smaller and curled around towards the back of the house, looking into the trees from two smaller windows.

May and Peter peered at both of them in turn and then looked at each other.

She grinned.

"I think you should definitely go with the flowers," she said.

Peter grinned overenthusiastically and nodded as if the idea was one he had been dying to say already.

"Totally."

May chuckled and then nudged him out of the way so she could step into the flowered room. Peter followed and dropped off her luggage, and then he stepped into his own room. It was more spacious than the one in Queens for sure, and it smelled old and stale, almost like Ned's grandparents' house. There was a queen-sized bed pushed against the back wall, and an antique desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a nightstand made up the rest of the furniture. A woven green rug that matched the tail-feathers of the roosters on his wallpaper chafed across the wood planks of the floor as he stepped on it.

And then everything crashed in on him, obliterating any kind of amusement or warmth he had felt from meeting Laura and joking with May.

Before he really had a chance to think about it, he had shut the door and clicked the lock in. He walked over to his bed and perched on its edge, trying not to look at the roosters, which were really beginning to get on his nerves for some reason.

A headache had begun to pulsate in his temples and forehead, and now he sank his head into his hands, tried to shut at least the image of his new surroundings out. But the smells remained. The weight in his chest remained.

He didn't know how long he sat like that, swimming in sensations, trying and failing to walk uninterrupted through his apartment in Queens in his mind. But the next thing he knew, there was a soft knock on the door, May's voice emanating from the panels. He looked up sharply, heart beating fast when there was no reason it should be.

"Peter? The Bartons are ready to give us a quick tour before dinner. You ready in there?"

Peter cleared his throat, but that panicky feeling wasn't going away—

He almost felt like, like…someone was here—

Watching him, waiting to pounce—

Peter twisted around to look at the window, which revealed nothing but the swaying tops of trees in the wind and some scrap lumber in the grass below. He turned, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, looked at his hands.

They were shaking, his fingertips tingling as if something bad was about to happen and he needed to get ready to fight. There was someone here. There was someone who shouldn't be here, he knew it—

"Peter?" May's voice was concerned now, almost urgent. She rattled the door knob and knocked again. "Peter, honey? Are you OK?"

Peter's voice returned to him. He took one deep breath.

"Yeah, May. Sorry. I was…I was asleep."

He heard her sigh in relief. He took another deep breath and another and another. The sense of impending doom faded somewhat, and his pounding heart calmed enough that the adrenaline wasn't choking out every other sensation around him.

He stood and wiped sweating palms against his jeans.

"OK, sweetie. Just come on down when you're awake enough."

Peter focused on his breathing, eyes closed once more. He felt sick to his stomach, on-edge, ready to leap into action and battle…something.

"I will," he said, quietly enough that he wondered for a moment if she heard him. Apparently, she did because a second later he heard slow footsteps move away from the door, descend the stairs. A buzz of voices murmured downstairs, too far away for him to make out distinct words of the house but loud enough he understood the general tone of the conversation.

After no more than a few seconds of deep breathing and clenched fists, Peter found that his heart and breathing rate had calmed enough that he could pass for just being tired from the trip and excitement of recent events. Probably.

And he _was _tired anyway. He wanted nothing more to sleep right now, but the Bartons wanted to give them a tour and had been gracious enough to admit he and May into their home, so he owed them that much.

He opened the door and hesitated very briefly before stepping across the threshold. He wiped away a sheen of sweat on his forehead and looked back into the rooster-populated room. He decided at that exact moment that he really didn't like roosters.

He didn't know what that had been back there—it wasn't a panic attack because he knew what those felt like—but for some odd, irrational reason, he couldn't shake the sense that those stupid roosters had something to do with it. Or, at the most, the new life they represented for him had something to do with it. Peter shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs of incoherent thoughts.

And then he inhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and began down the stairs.

But all the way down, he was chased by that feeling, the one that said he needed to be careful. That he needed to stay alert.

* * *

"We're going to take a look at all the animals first, get you used to where they're at," Laura said, walking backwards through the grass, barefoot like her children, smiling at the Parkers.

"Sounds good to me!" May replied, her tone matching the cheerfulness of Laura's smile. She linked arms with Peter, who had unwittingly begun to trail behind the family. Mr. Barton walked beside his wife with his hands in his pocket and his head down, obviously lost in thought about something. Cooper and Lila walked a few paces behind, just to the side of May, with Peter on the outside. Nathaniel was far ahead of all of them, skipping, jumping, and falling without a single thought as to the bandage on his forehead, apparently.

Peter tried to listen to what Laura was saying—something about cows and goats living together because the goats were too mischievous—but he was still being dogged by the peculiar feelings that had washed over him in the room.

An insidious thought was creeping into his head—

A connection between the almost-Peter-tingle he had gotten and the revelation of his identity—

He recalled his battle with Shocker and how quickly the bad guys had found out where he lived and had to ask himself the question—

The horrible, horrible question—

What if they knew he and May were here?

What if all those miles between Queens and this farmhouse in Missouri hadn't been enough? What if he had put May and the entire Barton family in even more danger by coming out here, stripping away the feeble protection that came from knowing his city inside and out, that came from being surrounded by other people? What if, out here in the country, alone and far away from police or jail or neighbors, someone was going to find him and try to kill them? All of them?

And the more he thought about it, arm in arm with May, grass brushing at his ankles, the sound of cows in the distance, the more it seemed plausible. The shaky adrenaline rush was returning.

But he couldn't let May know.

He couldn't let her know his suspicions because that would be too much—she seemed so convinced that this was a safe place, and she had been through so, so much. He couldn't do that to here, especially without more proof than his vague sense of impending doom (even, his mind protested, if his Spidey sense hadn't really failed him in the past).

It had been right about Mysterio, hadn't it? When it had stopped working for a while before the trip, after it had been going off incessantly for a solid month after the Blip, as if warning him that something big and dangerous was coming. He had ignored it with every ounce of his being during that time period simply because he couldn't understand why it was going crazy and because he just didn't want to deal with it. And then it had stopped, abruptly, and he had been fine with that. Nothing triggered it until that final battle with Mysterio.

Maybe his spidey-sense was more powerful than he thought, if it could predict things in the future like that.

Nathaniel's high baby-voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from the ground he hadn't been seeing. Nathaniel was pointing at a sprawling structure of wood and wire, a virtual palace of dust and beams: the chicken coop.

"This is where all the chickens live!" Nathaniel had announced, puffing his chest out and looking at Peter and May with undisguised pride in his voice.

Laura laughed, and May raised her eyebrows.

"Wow! How many chickens do you have?"

Mr. Barton spoke for the first time.

"I'd say we have about twenty at any given time. It's hard to keep up sometimes, especially after spring—"

"Yeah, then we have a bunch of ugly teenager chickens running around," Lila chimed.

"And then we have to cull the roosters," Cooper said darkly.

Laura rolled her eyes and looked at Peter and May, who were both surprised even though they probably shouldn't have been.

"It's not as bad as it sounds, I promise. And anyway, our gals are happy here, I think. We let them free-range all day and then shut them in the roost at night unless it's storming or too cold."

"They really like the woods," Nathaniel added, his voice and expression sage.

Peter was surprised at how she spoke of the chickens so fondly, almost as if they were more pets than utilitarian animals. He had seen chicks, of course, and there were a few people he had met over the years from upstate New York who owned chickens. But in his mind, they really weren't anything more than meat birds. Maybe that was a little insensitive, but—gals?

Seeing the abstract expression that must have been on Peter's face, Laura laughed again (she likes to laugh, Peter thought).

"Don't worry, Peter. I have a feeling you're going to get real acquainted with our ladies soon," she said, winking. Peter tried not to think about that too hard.

Laura started moving past the chickens, to a high wooden fence stretching across the grass and extending to the woods. Maybe that was where the cows were?

He managed to make it to the fence without his thoughts running away again, and now Mr. Barton smiled for the first time since Peter had seen him. He leaned against the fence and looked out across the field. Peter followed his gaze and found two horses grazing against a backdrop of trees, a big black one and then a smaller brown and white spotted one.

"These are our latest additions to the farm," Mr. Barton said, looking fondly at the two beasts. He turned and looked at his family and the Parkers.

"And seeing as they have yet to be named, we thought that maybe you two would like to help out."

May's eyebrows went up again, and she turned excitedly to her nephew.

"Absolutely! Peter, what do you think?"

What Peter thought was insensitive disrespectful because he couldn't seem to help it at the moment (_I'm sick of people asking me what I think when it doesn't really matter anyway_), but he pasted on a smile and tried to answer anyway. His voice cracked as if it hadn't been used in a long time.

"Uh, cool. Thanks, sir."

He didn't miss the snicker and looks Lila and Cooper exchanged, nor the slight dip in Laura's eyebrows as she considered Peter's response. But, thankfully, Mr. Barton didn't seem to be one to dwell on things like that, and he was already turning away, walking towards another fenced-in field that lay beyond the horses.

They were doing a lot of walking today, and despite the well-worn dirt trails that wound around the farm, the unadulterated earth beneath Peter's feet felt strange as he followed his hosts. May squeezed his arm, and it was only then that Peter realized how uncharacteristically quiet she had been since getting to the farm.

Maybe he wasn't the only one feeling more than a little uneasy and awkward.

The back of Peter's neck prickled, but he turned to find nothing but the two horses, heads up as they watched the seven humans walk away from them. He turned back around and tried—really tried—to ignore the lingering sensation.

But the Bartons' small herd of cows and lively goats weren't enough to capture his thoughts despite his best efforts, and soon they were running wild once more.

* * *

The rest of the tour was a blur to Peter—like a lot of things seemed to be lately.

Manure, hay dust, dying sunlight, green grass, and the random chicken or two bobbing through the grass towards some unseen treat drifted across his senses. He caught a few more details regarding the Bartons: all three of the couple's kids were homeschooled; they were growing wheat, corn, fruits, and some berries on the right side of their property, just over the hill that Peter's room overlooked; and yes, Laura had deep family ties to rural living all throughout Missouri, Tennessee, and scant parts of Kentucky. Mr. Barton, unsurprisingly, had none.

Before he knew it, the tour was over. No one had asked him any deep questions, nothing had attacked them from the woods, and they were standing at the front porch. He was mildly surprised to find that he was sweating; the air here was much more humid than in New York. May and Laura were talking animatedly about—he paused to listen—canning food?

Lila and Cooper had sat down on the porch with Nathaniel between them, and they were all three wiggling bare feet in the dust, talking quietly, looking up at Peter and May every once in a while. Peter tugged his arm out of May's, but she was so deep in the conversation she didn't seem to notice.

He looked up at the sky, guessing it was probably around four-thirty or so now.

After a moment in which his head was mostly clear except for a few snatches of the conversations around him or some change in the environment around him, such as when Lucky began digging in the flower bed and had to be called out roughly by Mr. Barton, everyone lapsed into a contented silence.

Laura sighed and clapped her hands together, startling Peter enough that he jumped.

"Alright. I think that's enough small talk for the moment. Who's ready to eat some chicken—or what we could salvage of it?"

Lila sighed dramatically from the porch, though she smiled anyway, and then May was once again looking at Peter as if she expected something from her. He couldn't seem to figure out what until he realized she had asked him something.

_Come on, pay attention, Peter._

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

The corners of May's mouth flattened slightly, the first hint of a coming frown, and Peter scrambled to recover. He smiled softly.

"I think we could use a bite after that intense tour."

To his great relief, Laura chuckled and May seemed satisfied, so they all began to file into the house, Mr. Barton and a chastised Lucky bringing up the rear, right behind Peter.

But the moment Peter stepped into the house and smelled the food, his nausea returned. He felt cramped and tight and, once again, ready to fight. He balked just past the threshold while the others went ahead into the dining room. Cooper and Lila began to set out dishes while May went with Laura, presumably to help bring out the food.

Behind him, he could hear Mr. Barton pause. His breathing was terribly, terribly loud.

_What was wrong with him?_

"Parker? You good?"

Peter swallowed and licked his lips, but there was a pressure behind his eyes. The trembling in his fingers was back. Was he getting sick? Was he just absolutely exhausted? Or was his Spidey sense really trying to warn him about something?

"I…I'm fine."

Peter managed to turn around, though his eyes couldn't quite meet Mr. Barton's. He needed to go to bed, sleep, let the darkness carry away this nausea and stress and…whatever the heck else was going on.

"Would it, uh, be OK if maybe I skipped dinner tonight?" he said, quietly. Mr. Barton stepped forward and to the side, pulled the door closed. Something lurched in Peter's stomach.

Lucky sat on Peter's feet, whapping her tail across his legs, staring earnestly into the boy's eyes, as if she too could sense what was going on and was worried about him (but of course that was stupid, right?)

"If you want. You sick?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Laura emerged from the kitchen and saw the pair standing in the doorway. She frowned and put the pan down.

"Are you alright, Peter?" she asked, coming forward. Peter wanted people to stop asking him that.

"Y—yeah. I'm just really tired, Mrs. Barton," he said, looking everywhere but at her motherly expression. "It's been a long time and I'm not really hungry and I'm sure dinner is good so I'm sorry I'm gonna miss it but—"

Laura held up a hand.

"No, sweetheart. You're fine. I understand. Go get some rest, and maybe you can eat later if you want."

Peter nodded, even though he knew he wasn't going to feel like eating anything later and knowing that he was probably going to sleep a long time—especially if he really was getting sick.

When Laura smiled and Mr. Barton stepped past them towards the dining room, he wasted no time in getting up the stairs. He had to actively resist the urge to run, and when he reached the door and stepped inside the room—despite its roosters—he felt just a little better.

Still shaking but feeling the adrenaline-like rush drain out of his body by the second, Peter locked his eyes on the bed and fell onto it. He crushed his face into the pillow and then grabbed another one and wrapped it around his ears, muting the barrage of infuriating _quiet_—so different from the constant buzz of traffic in New York. He laid there, listening to his heart pound, flashes of images and fragments of memories from every part of his life surfacing every now and then in vivid detail.

But despite all of that—

Despite the crushing unfamiliarity and his Spidey sense malfunctiong _again_ (or not)—

Despite seeing May's and Ned's and MJ's concerned expressions, looking at him, assessing him—

He was asleep before he knew what was happening.

* * *

**A/N: OKAY. WELL. I am NOT going to lie to y'all...that was extremely hard to grind out. I have been, admittedly, much more caught up with my Mandalorian fic lately, and I didn't reaalllyy want to write this yet but decided to go for it anyway. So. Yeah. Much whew. Probably kinda crappy. Sorry, but not too sorry because I WROTE, AlRiGhT?!**

**Anyyywaayy...this is basically a bridge chapter. I've gotten most of the plot worked out now and we're going to be getting into some pretty gritty stuff soon (both emotionally and farmly, if you know what I mean). I just needed to get this down to, uh, show a few things going on with Peter (ooHhH, what is it preciouss?), introduce the Bartons officially, etc. etc. I hope you enjoyed despite this chapter's flaws because I kinda got into the end. XD**

**Also know that I definitely took liberties with the Barton farm, but I'll be explaining some more about the setup and everything in coming chapters, so stay tuned.**

**Also AGAIN, just so you know, it was really weird writing Cooper Barton because I have character in an actual book I'm *writing* (as in I'm going to write but haven't even fully built the world for yet) named Cooper and it was just... -_-**

**But yes. Sorry. Rambling again. Right.**

**Thank YOU SO VERY MUCH, everyone for your kind words, your views, your hearts, and your follows (and, once again because I just can't stop appreciating your awesomeness, special thanks to _shewritesit18_ for her in-depth and thoughtful and kind review). You guys are the only reason I keep writing this, so from the bottom of my heart I thank you.**

**Please have the best Friday ever, know you are loved, know that things WILL be OK, and I will talk to you next time! :D**

**ByE!**

**(Psalm 118:6)**


	7. Clear as Mud

Peter woke to three equally disorienting realizations.

First and foremost, he was _starving_, and it was his state of starvation that had him out of bed and standing in front of the door—hand on the knob and eyes squinted in dazed suspicion—before his mind could even begin to process the fact.

Secondly, he actually felt _normal_ (besides the hunger, of course). The buzzing of his spidey sense, which had been so debilitating yesterday, was conspicuously absent. The anxiety that had been coiled so tightly in his whole frame was gone, replaced by the hunger (_so much hunger_) and the soft warmth that came with actually having gotten a decent amount of sleep.

But third, and perhaps most disturbingly, Peter had a commercial playing on loop in his head—the " " commercial where the one guy is shooting a bow and turns out to be a total jerk to his blind date. Except in his head, the guy isn't some city-slicker—it's Clint Barton.

Peter frowned.

None of that even began to make sense.

He'd probably only seen that commercial once in his entire life…

"What the—?"

He took his hand off the knob and hesitantly brought it to his face to rub away some of the last vestiges of sleep—and the commercial, hopefully. Once it was back at his side, he took a moment to let his senses scramble to fill in the gaps left behind by his hasty exodus from bed.

There were pale pools of sunlight spilling from the windowsill, which meant that it was still early and he hadn't slept through breakfast. Thank goodness.

There was a murmur of voices beneath his feet and a faint trill of birdsong outside his window. His clothes were…less than fresh, and they clung to his skin a little too much for his liking, but that wasn't really anything new. Best of all, though, there were the smells, so heavy in the air that he could nearly taste the feast he knew had to be waiting downstairs.

Bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, coffee, orange juice—pretty much the stereotypical country breakfast. Pretty much smelling three-thousand times better than anything he had ever eaten at Cracker Barrell.

Peter grinned and turned the knob to let himself out of the rooster-clad room.

The smells were even _better_ in the hallway…

* * *

"Mm…Mrs. Barton, these eggs are heaven," Peter mumbled through a mouthful of said eggs, waving his fork vaguely to emphasize the point.

May frowned, but the negative expression didn't get anywhere near her eyes.

"Peter. Close your mouth when you chew, honey."

Peter didn't miss the fact that she covered her budding smile with her cup of coffee as soon as the words left her mouth, though, and he gave her the slightest grin as he jabbed his fork into a few pieces of pancake, making sure to submerge them in an amber wash of syrup before permanently relocating them to his mouth.

n.

"I'm glad you like them, Peter. Lila's been learning all my trade secrets," Laura said when she came back to the table, discreetly dropping a piece of freshly-fried bacon for Lucky to gobble up posthaste.

Peter's gaze jumped to Lila, who had been seated when he had come from upstairs. She offered a bashful grin in no particular direction, and Cooper, beside her, made a face.

"Yuh-huh. Including your meatloaf secret, Mom."

Laura laughed, but the four Bartons (Nathaniel was perched at one end of the table, stuffing his face with a fervor that almost matched Peter's) didn't offer any further information. Peter might have asked about it on some other occasion, but right now the food was so good and he was _so _hungry from skipping dinner last night and there was still all that bacon to eat that he didn't really feel the benefits outweighed the disadvantages of trying to strike up further conversation.

He did notice, however, that Clint wasn't inside yet.

When he had swallowed the last of his sixth pancake, he slowed down and took a proper look at the kitchen, smoky with bacon fumes, cozy with the soft light of the day's youth. It was nice, he thought with some surprise. This was OK.

"Uh, Mrs. Barton…where's Mr. B—I mean, where's Clint?"

Saying the first name of one of the Avengers still felt so wrong on his tongue. He was glad he had syrup to make it taste better.

"He had some chores before breakfast, but he should be in anytime," Laura replied, taking a sip of orange juice and resting her elbows languidly on the table.

Peter nodded and grabbed another slice of bacon.

"You eat a lot," Nathaniel suddenly piped up from where he had been watching Peter eat with an intensity that might have been scary if it had been coming from someone else.

Peter just thought that it reminded him of Morgan, and he gave him a smile that came so easily that he almost sighed in relief. Maybe he was getting back to normal—feeling emotions like a regular human being again.

"Gotta feed my inner spider," he grinned.

Nathaniel's eyebrows creased, and his eyes darted around curiously, searching for the arachnid his elder had alluded to.

"There ain't spiders in here…"

Lila made a noise of exasperation and leaned toward her younger brother, excitement making her eyes bright. This was obviously something she was interested in, which made Peter feel a little warm and also a little alarmed.

"Peter's got spider-powers, Nate. Remember when we explained that to you?"

Peter crunched into his bacon as May chuckled, suddenly at a complete and totally familiar loss of words. He didn't know why, but hearing a reference to the fact that the Bartons had—rightfully and expectedly—discussed him before he and May came made him uncomfortable. What all did the Barton kids know? And what else had been said about them?

_Yeah, the guy got his yearbook picture plastered all over New York City and now he's gonna come live with us so no one kills the people he loves haha—can't wait to meet him._

Peter frowned at his intrusive thoughts for the second time that morning, but he was spared any further comment by the sound of the door opening and closing. Clint was here.

Nathaniel squealed and was up in a flash, running straight into the waiting arms of his father. Peter zeroed in on his bacon, but he could hear as Clint took the boy up and hugged him, mumbling something that made the little boy giggle and start to squirm.

The two entered the kitchen, Clint covered in dust, with hay sticking from random places, his heavy boots leaving trails of what had to be some kind of manure across the floor. Laura, noticing, gave him an incredulous look and pointed a commanding finger at the door.

"Clint Barton. You _know _you don't wear those things in the house!"

"Uh…but I'm an Avenger?"

"No. Take them off."

Peter wanted to laugh at the sight of stern, totally scary Clint Barton being ordered to take his shoes off by the door, but Mrs. Barton was frankly being so awesome that all he really felt was admiration as her husband complied with her order and slipped his shoes off by the door.

What was it with there being scarily awesome women in his life? First May, then Pepper, then MJ, and now Laura Barton. Peter grinned around a swig of water.

When Clint reemerged in the kitchen, one eyebrow up in a playful "_OK, OK, I did it. Now what?_" kind of way, Lila, Cooper, and Nathaniel were all giggling.

"Good morning, Dad," Lila grinned.

Clint nodded in acknowledgement, ruffled Cooper's hair playfully as he passed, and sat down at the head of the table, pulling his plate toward him.

"Morning, everyone. Ms. Parker, Peter."

May smiled.

"Already out mucking hay, I see?"

Clint chuckled at May's comment for a reason that was lost on the both of them.

"Something like that," he replied, scanning the table before frowning and glancing up at his wife, who was busy at the sink. The woman seemed to be in perpetual motion, managing to avoid tripping over an irrepressible Lucky while juggling a thousand other tasks at one time.

"Is there any coffee left?"

Laura nodded and jerked her head at the coffee pot, and the room lapsed into a kind of happy, buzzing silence.

Peter dumped a few more portions of eggs on his plate, realizing belatedly—now that his hunger was significantly duller—that he probably should have left more for Mr. Barton. Whoops.

Once the silence had sufficiently filled up the room, May broke it to begin a conversation with Laura, and Peter became so focused on watching Lucky perform her starving dog impression that he almost missed it when Clint asked him a question.

"How about we teach you to feed the chickens?"

Peter glanced at the man, three-quarters of the way to uncomfortably full but still wanting to eat a couple more plates of pancakes. He noticed as he began to reply that Clint was drinking the coffee straight from the pot.

_Efficient…_

"Uh, yeah. I mean, yessir. That could be good. I think."

Clint nodded and took another practiced swig from the pot.

And it was at that moment that Peter knew his emotions weren't entirely back to what they had been because there was a sudden spike of anxiety through his gut, so fierce and sudden that it felt like a physical blow.

He quickly lowered his fork to his plate and looked away from the table, back to Lucky. She stared back politely, whapped her tail a couple of times, and then came up to him just to rest her heavy golden head on his lap. He hesitated to pet her, but her fur was so soft that he gave in after a moment and began to run his fingers down her nose and between her ears in quick, short strokes.

The anxiety faded a little bit, but he was left with swirling thoughts, wondering why it had suddenly showed up, if it was related to his spidey senses somehow—if anyone had noticed.

Apparently they hadn't, though, because when he glanced back up, everyone was engaged in a perfectly normal, perfectly lively, perfectly not-worried-about-Peter conversation.

He let out a slow breath.

That was good.

He was full, which was also good.

That weird commercial was out of his head (GOOD).

He was going to learn how to feed chickens (perfectly safe and normal and not anxiety-inducing).

He was surrounded by one of the most functional, loving families he had ever seen—which was good and made him think of Uncle Ben a little bit and his parents but not in an inherently depressing way—

So why was he suddenly feeling…off again?

* * *

The day was well on its way to being uncomfortably hot as Clint and Peter strode across the grass towards the chickens.

Peter cleared his throat when the silence began to seem impolite on his part. He matched strides with the purposeful man ahead of him, managing to pinpoint some excitement buzzing under his skin just at the fact that he was walking beside, well…a legend. Never-mind the going-to-feed-the-chickens-and-not-save-the-world part.

"So…have you always wanted to, you know, farm?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

They walked on for a few more beats, Peter's mind scrambling to come up with another topic of conversation. He hadn't really known Clint would be so hard to talk to, but, then again, he was one of the Avengers that always seemed to try and avoid the limelight, so, really, there wasn't too much Peter _did _know for sure about the man.

"Listen up, kid," Clint said when they had stopped in front of the chicken coop, where Peter could see that nearly the entire flock was pacing in front of the wire, clucking and generally being impatient and twitchy. Peter swallowed and met Clint's eyes.

He was slightly relieved to see that the man had a half-smile on his face.

"While you're here, I'm just a regular guy. You don't have to worry about disappointing me or impressing me or whatever other stressful things were going through your head. Just…relax. Got it?"

Peter stared at him.

"Uh…"

Clint's half-smile grew to a grin and he clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder good-naturedly.

"Great. Now. Chickens."

Without bothering to see Peter's delayed reaction to any of this, the Avenger stepped forward and unlatched the door of the coop. He looked at Peter.

"Pretty much, you're just going to have to let them out in the morning and latch them in when it gets dark. Throw a couple scoops of feed—" here he gestured at a metal bin propped against one side of the coop. "—in their feeder in the time in between, check the nesting boxes for eggs before you close them up for the night, and that's it. Simple."

Peter eyed the metal bin and the flow of chickens that had begun to wind around his feet, clucking and scratching at the grass. He tried to ignore the rooster, who was up to some highly suspicious and…violent activities (yeah, roosters were really shaping up to not be his thing…)

"O—OK."

Clint nodded and looked out at the chickens, who were now fanning out and forming small, feathered cliques. Just like high-school.

"Maybe check on them throughout the day to make sure they're all here. I think we stand at twenty-three right now."

Peter nodded. That shouldn't be too hard.

"So…I'm just…in charge of the chickens now?" He paused, then added almost reflexively, "Sir."

Clint's gaze snapped to him.

"Right. Don't mess it up."

Peter swallowed, but this time he could tell the man was kidding, and he didn't quite feel so intimidated. No anxiety here. Just chickens. And the weight of misplaced expectations, maybe.

"Thanks, sir."

"Don't thank me. I'm the one getting off easy. I hate these things most days."

Peter snorted before he could think too hard about it, and he was relieved to see that Clint was smiling, too, his eyes trained on the rooster—who was still running around being a bully.

"I thought they were your 'gals'," Peter grinned.

Clint shook his head in defeat.

"Laura's, not mine."

Peter nodded, then looked back at the feed bin. He gestured to it.

"Should I…?"

"Yup."

Peter made his way to the bin and pulled the lid off. The dusty wave of air that hit him instantly set him into a round of coughing. He managed to fill the large scoop with feed, though, and after a moment made his way to the hanging feeder in the coop, eyes watering with chicken-food dust.

The feeder took a good five scoops to fill up completely, and when he finally finished and closed the dusty bin in relief, he found Clint watching him, arms crossed and eyebrows up.

Peter self-consciously straightened up and dusted his jeans off. He walked back towards Clint and the house.

"Uh…that was right, wasn't it?"

Clint nodded, but the amusement didn't leave his face.

"Yeah. It might have been easier just to unhook the feeder and carry it to the bin, though."

Peter felt his cheeks heat up. Geez. Now he definitely looked like a city-slicker (_Peter Parker Down on the Farm!_)

But Clint frowned at his reaction, and his arms dropped to his sides as he turned back to the house, deftly nudging away a hen who had taken a particular interest in his boots.

"Forget it. There's a first time for everything."

Peter walked beside the man, once again caught in that limbo where nothing he wanted to say seemed right and everything that he _should _respond with had completely eluded his brain. But, as seemed to be the pattern lately, one of the Bartons came to his rescue.

Clint stopped and put a hand on Peter's shoulder, stopping him, too. When Peter looked up, he found Clint looking at him with the most seriousness he had seen yet—it wasn't intimidating, nor was it bored. It was a kind of intense seriousness, the kind that said he needed to shut up and listen because this was a rare thing to witness and so it had to be important.

"You ever need anything, Peter," the man said, clearing his throat. "Come to me. Or to Laura. Or to someone. Stark and me might have had our differences, yeah, but he was a friend."

At the mention of Mr. Stark, Peter felt himself go still, and he was instantly aware of every beat of his heart, of the lump in his throat. It was unexpected, hearing Clint talk about Mr. Stark so personally, and it had to be at a time when he thought he might be getting his tangle of emotions sorted out. Clint continued as if he hadn't noticed—and maybe he hadn't.

"He saw things in you, kid—big things—so I'm going to trust that what he saw was worth it. I know he'd probably say you could get out of the mess you're in, and I think he'd be right…"

Clint looked down for a moment, thinking, leaving Peter to wade painfully through his thoughts. When he looked back up, Peter just saw relief in his expression—maybe it had been as hard for him to say all of that as it had been for Peter to listen to it.

"Just hang in there. Alright? Pun fully intended."

Peter's smile wasn't terribly strained when it came, and when Clint stepped back, he knew exactly what he could say because he meant it.

"Thanks, Mr. B—Clint. For letting us stay and everything."

Peter shrugged, averting his eyes. He could sense that Clint nodded, satisfied, and then the man was moving away.

Peter stood there for a moment, letting his wild emotions run their course through him. On the one hand, he felt more tired and more lost than before—what did all of that even mean in the grand scheme of things and how much did Mr. Barton even know his career as Spiderman and his time with Mr. Stark?—but on the other, he felt more at peace with his exhaustion and his sense of being lost and with the whole bulk of knowledge that the next couple of months were going to be hard to get through.

He could already tell he wasn't cut out for farm life, and yet—

He thought maybe he could be OK. Here. With somewhat emotionally awkward but still unexpectedly kind Clint Barton.

Maybe he needed this break, this quiet, and this—Peter scanned the wide yard and the creaking trees, the awkward chickens and the distant splotch of gold that was Lucky—_peace_.

Maybe he could find out more about what peace meant.

Peter walked back to the house, feeling both heavier and lighter at the same time, though there was something at the back of his mind that was fighting his idea that peace was nearer than he thought—

It was a buzzing, a warning—

His spidey sense.

_Would it ever let him rest_?

* * *

Jameson paced in his office, phone pressed heavily against his ear, hands twitching in agitation.

"What do you mean _gone_?"

Pause.

"Of course I know what the word means," the man growled, stopping short, grip tightening. "But I need to know where he went! If you don't find out in another twenty-four hours, you're fired. And that's final…family or not!"

Jameson viciously tapped the "end call" button and let out a hot breath of air before placing the phone down on his desk. He drummed his fingers against its surface, mind racing. His frown deepened, following a well-worn patchwork of lines on his face.

The story about Peter Parker's alter-ego had been a big one. Vigilantes and superheroes were controversial by nature, and even half the world's population being killed off in a single moment hadn't changed the kind of interest they invariably generated when they slipped up—or didn't. It only mattered, in many cases, that people _believed _they slipped up because then they would want more information. More gossip. More drama.

Which would lead them to news offices like his.

Which would earn him the money and prestige he needed.

He wasn't going to let it slip away now because the kid had skipped town out of _fear_.

Jameson scoffed and picked his cellphone up again. He tapped his way to the contacts, hesitating over the unnamed contact for a split second before swearing under his breath in resignation and hitting call.

He waited four rings before the man on the other end answered, his accented voice further distorted by the technology he was obviously unaccustomed to using.

"You remember that job you came to me over a few weeks ago?"

There was a rustle on the other end of the phone—one that had Jameson's heart racing for some indiscernible reason. When the man spoke, his voice was clearer, deeper, more interested than before.

"The Spider, yes?"

Jameson sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right. You still interested in going after him for me?"

"I go after prey for only one reason, Mr. Jameson—the hunt itself. I do not need your permission to chase down an _insect_."

Jameson leaned back against his desk, foot tapping in agitation.

"Yes, so I've heard. And I know you don't think he's worth your time—"

"That is correct. As I informed you."

"—but I think I might be able to persuade you otherwise."

Jameson nearly held his breath as he waited for the other man's reaction. He had gotten in contact with this mysterious hunter through some of his other sources, and while he felt less than comfortable with dealing with such an obviously unstable and violent man…well, a confrontation between New York's own Spiderman and this strangely powerful Russian might be a spectacle worth reporting on.

And it might just get the spandex-clad teenager back in the city, where he belonged.

Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, the hunter spoke.

"I am listening, Mr. Jameson…"

Jameson smiled and cast a glance at the folder lying on his desk—the folder full of all the kinds of incidents that this hunter might be interested in knowing about. Spiderman—despite his youth—had been pretty busy over the past couple of years (before the Blip, of course). There were plenty of things that might give this hunter reason to deem him a worthy pursuit.

"Excellent. When would be a good time to meet, Mr…I'm sorry, I don't quite have your name."

"Call me Kraven," the Russian purred. "And we shall meet tomorrow night at your office. Is that…appealing to you?"

Jameson glanced at his watch. He had a date with his wife tomorrow night, but he had just hooked this Kraven fellow's interest, and he wasn't about to lose it. Not when he might have lost the Spider already.

"Perfect. I'll see you, then."

Kraven the Hunter ended the call first, and Jameson let out a long exhale as he placed the phone down.

It was chased almost immediately by a self-satisfied grin.

* * *

**A/N: :D**

**Bet you weren't expecting THIS! And by 'this', of course, I mean another chapter because WHEW has it been a long time since I've updated this. Life has gotten crazy. My inspiration for this story has admittedly waned considerably (what can I say? It's been a while since new content, the Mandalorian fandom has unexpectedly taken over my mental fanspace, etc.). BUT I DO KNOW THAT MJ AND NED SHOULD FEATURE IN A CHAPTER SOON SO THAT'S GOOD. ;D**

**OH, AND GUYS: if you haven't watched the ridiculous " " commercial with the archer guy, please go and do it if only to even vaguely understand the reference here. And please let me know if those commercials ARE shown outside the South because I really dunno. Also: be prepared for your brain cells to die as you watch it. It's pretty special.**

**But anyway. I really really hope y'all got something out of this. I know it's a bit rough around the edges, probably a tad self-indulgent, and a little special at times, but all in all...it *might* be smoother next chapter and there is at least a small probability that one sentence or more of this was decent. Plus, I got some plot development in at the end with Kraven, so that should be...interesting. Stay tuned for more! Thanks so much for reading...you ar E.**

**Love ya'!**

**-Roanoke**

**(Psalm 127:3-5)**


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